


Dovhakiin Dragonlord

by kriadydragon



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 19:13:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1237819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kriadydragon/pseuds/kriadydragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As if it wasn't strange enough that Merlin, of all people, happened to be the Dragonborn. It also turns out that his destiny isn't to stop the dragons, but to save them. Oh, and the world along with them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Dragon Big Bang.  
> Art Pending.
> 
> Takes place about a century after the events of the Elder Scrolls.

It was said that if you climbed to the top of Giant’s Bluff, you could see all the way across the plains and woodlands to the hold of Camelot itself – if the day was clear and the sun was bright. But it was Will who had said it, and Will’s stories were more often than not a load of skeever dung. 

But sometimes his stories weren’t skeever dung, and the climb wasn’t _that_ hard, not when Merlin was eight and a lot stronger than he was at seven (although Will would beg to differ by pointing out with a smirk the sticks that were Merlin’s arms and legs). But Merlin was stronger, he was sure of it, clamoring up the clefts, juts and ledges with… not ease; even he couldn’t really call it ease, not with all the slipping, sliding and knicks and cuts on his knees and knuckles that his mum wasn’t going to be happy about. But he was doing it, making his slow, painful way to the ledge stretched out like a long but narrow table.

Merlin reached the top, his heart pounding no longer from the terror of falling but from the overwhelming euphoria of accomplishment. He shimmied on his stomach onto the ledge, then stood tall and straight like some ancient warrior, like Talos, like the Dragonborn of old.

What he saw wasn’t the distant hold of Camelot. 

He saw the tiny farming village of Ealdor, with its huts, fields, and the cluster of buildings that made up the inn, apothecary and trading shop. He saw the mountains patched in green woodlands that thinned the closer they came to the golden, rocky plains. He saw the old stone road winding its way over the land, through their village and beyond, and saw the river glittering through the rocks like a crystal ribbon.

And he saw a dragon.

It was a sudden appearance, the dragon darting out from around the peak of the mountain, startling Merlin so bad he stumbled and fell onto his backside. The dragon – a great horned, spiked and red mottled thing - circled around the peak high over Merlin’s head. It shouted a great plume of flames at whatever it was that was being attacked. Whatever it was fought with flames of its own – fireballs that exploded against the dragon. A mage, then, or maybe flaming Atronach. 

The thought of two such powerful beings battling it out not far from the bluff froze Merlin in terror, a part of him screaming to run, another part certain that if he did run, one of the combatants would see him and attack. 

Then Merlin saw movement – two figures, one flowing and the other leaping to a more defensible position. It was a flaming Atronach, and commanding it was a figure in black robes. 

Merlin knew of the black robes that glowed with darkness. His mother had told him the stories, not for entertainment but to warn him – when you see black robes, you run. 

Because only necromancers wore black robes. 

The terror finally consumed Merlin until all thoughts of being spotted dissolved from his mind. He scrambled to his feet, but it was too late. The dragon, wounded, crashed to the ground only feet from Merlin, the impact toppling Merlin back to the ground. Flames exploded everywhere, the figure in black – male by the voice – shouting boisterous and insane insults at a beast bigger even than the oldest tree. The dragon roared. Its jaws snapped like a trap, picking the black robed figure into its jaws and shaking it like a dog’s toy. The Atronach continued tossing its flames until the dragon opened its maw to let out a moan of agony. The body of the figure fell, tumbling down the rocks and stopping just above the ledge where Merlin huddled. The dragon flopped onto the ground, releasing one last breath. Both combatants lay dead, eyes empty, blood trickling down the rocks. The Atronach faded into embers and powder.

Merlin was going to be sick. He _would_ have been sick, but he was distracted by the dragon’s body going slowly up in flames. Suddenly, a great gust of light and wind poured from the dragon’s body into Merlin’s body, filling him with something that made his heart race and his soul gasp. When the light vanished, all that remained of the dragon was bones.

Merlin stood there, his breathing fast and his heart beating so hard it hurt. He was shaking so badly that for the longest time, what felt like forever, he was unable to move. All he could do was stand there staring into the gray face of what had once been a dark elf in the robes of necromancy. 

Until something clattered down the rocks toward Merlin. His frozen mind dismissed it as a rock at first, and it wasn’t until it tumbled toward the ledge, about to drop on his toes and smash them, that instinct made Merlin catch the thing and realize it was too smooth to be a stone. Whatever it was, it was perfect – egg-shaped and large, forcing him to use both his arms to cradle it - and yet surprisingly light. 

It was also warm, verging on hot. And it was moving.

Scraping came from inside the egg, then the shell cracked. Startled, Merlin dropped the egg with a yelp and scrambled back. The egg rocked, the cracks in the shells increasing until bits of shell finally began popping off. A little white snout poked through the small opening, pushing against its confines until more shell fell away. Finally, with one last shove, the shell parted, revealing a little dragon the size of a male cat, white as the driven snow and its scales just as glittering. It was bald, for a dragon, with none of the usual horns and spikes. But Merlin was close enough to see the tiny bumps that would one day grow into the fearsome decorations common with dragons.

The little dragon looked at Merlin with large, blue eyes. With a chirp, it trotted up to him. Merlin tried to scramble away but was stopped when his hand met open air. He held out that hand instead.

“S-stop,” he said, his palms glowing with flames. “I-I-I know magic!” He was good at fire magic. He was good with most magics, much to his mother’s surprise, but fire being useful on cold rainy nights when the wood was too wet to light with flint, he had come to consider himself quite adept at it. 

The dragon regarded his palm for a moment, sniffed at it, then stretched out its neck and butted its head against Merlin’s wrist like an affectionate cat. Stunned, Merlin could only sit there as the dragon climbed into his lap and curled up. 

It looked up at Merlin, and said in a tiny dragon Shout that still resonated through Merlin’s bones, “Aithusa.”

The name burned into Merlin’s mind, never to be forgotten.

~oOo~

Climbing down the rocks proved far easier than climbing up, especially since Merlin wasn’t burdened by a baby dragon. Dragons, it seemed, were like horses – up and moving the moment they were born, but far more capable than a wobbly foal. Aithusa followed Merlin easily, not only easily but as though this were some fun new game, the little dragon chirping and squeaking in delight as it hopped from rock to rock, flapping its little wings in delight. On beating Merlin to the ground, it looked up at him with an expression that could only be described as smug.

“Oh, don’t be so full of yourself,” Merlin grumbled. He hopped from the last ledge of rock onto the soft ground with a thump. “I’d like to see you make that climb without claws.”

Aithusa hopped up and down as though eager to play again. Merlin was quite ready to tell her off when the sounds of shouting pulled his attention away to where the land sloped down toward Ealdor. He could see his cottage, and the little gardens surrounding it already springing up with crops, and racing around from the cottage was what looked to be the entire village plus the Khajiit caravan and two hunters that had been staying at the inn. Everyone was armed, some with weapons and a scattered few with spells. 

Merlin quickly gathered Aithusa up, stuffed it within a small, narrow crevice between two boulders and told it to stay put and keep quiet. Either dragons learned as quickly as they mastered their legs, or his tone of voice conveyed his urgency; Aithusa shrank low, its eyes bright with worry. Merlin then hurried down the hill to meet the war party, pointing up the mountain.

“There!” He cried. “A dragon, I saw a dragon!”

“Aye, lad, we saw the commotion,” Tom the innkeeper said, slowing as he approached Merlin. “Is it still up there? Has it flown off?”

“It’s dead, and there’s a dead necromancer, too,” Merlin said, still pointing.

Tom nodded once, and with a grim smile ruffled Merlin’s hair. “Get to your ma, lad. We’ll handle things from here.”

Merlin nodded, but instead of trotting off to do as told, he stood there, waiting as half the village plus caravan and hunters made their way up the rocks or – if unable to climb – circled around trying to get a better look. The moment everyone was either out of sight or high up the mountain side, Merlin hurried back to the cleft, gathered Aithusa to him and ran back to the cottage.

As soon as he opened the door, he was immediately met with, “Merlin, where in the world have you bee—Merlin Balinorson what in the world do you have now?”

Merlin froze, the door slowly creaking shut on its own behind him, while his mother Hunith stood before him, her fists on her hips. 

“Merlin, if that’s another stray cat you know we’ve plenty already. I doubt this farm has seen a mouse in ages.”

Merlin said nothing, staring down at the white ball that was Aithusa.

“Merlin?” Hunith said sternly.

Swallowing, Merlin looked up. “It’s… not a cat.”

And that’s when Aithusa decided to lift its head and chirp.

Hunith’s arms slowly lowered to her side, her jaw just as slowly dropping open. Then she, too, swallowed, and said, quietly, “Merlin. What – where did you get that?”

After a moment of hesitation, Merlin said, “I found it.”

“And can I assume your finding it had something to do with the noise outside?”

Merlin nodded. The sudden silence in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife, the pop and burbling of the stew pot almost nonexistent. 

“You know you can’t keep it, Merlin,” Hunith said. 

Merlin’s eyes shot up to his mother in panic. “But it’s just a baby. It’ll die by itself.”

Aithusa bleated as though in support of Merlin’s protests. 

Hunith knelt in front of her son and placed her hands on his shoulders, unconcerned by Aithusa’s proximity.

“Merlin, love, I know. But it will not stay young forever. It will grow, requiring more food than we can spare and becoming more difficult to hide from the village. It will not be safe with us.”

A lump expanded in Merlin’s throat, making it hard to speak and breathe. She was right. Merlin knew she was right, and it wasn’t fair. Aithusa was just a baby, harmless and friendly and trusting. Tears pricked at his eyes, and when they began rolling down his cheeks, Hunith softened, then sighed.

“Your dragon can stay with us for now,” she said, and when Merlin’s spine stiffened in joy, she raised a stern finger. “Just until we can figure out what to do with it. It’s not to go outside and it’s not to be seen by anyone, even Will. Do I make myself clear?”

Merlin nodded enthusiastically.

“Good.” Hunith pressed her lips together. “You are a hard boy to say no to. And it’s your dragon’s luck I had one of the goats butchered for stew. It’ll mean extra meat. Now go find a spot where you can hide that dragon should anyone come over.”

Merlin nodded again, already knowing the perfect spot beneath his rickety bed. There was plenty of clutter underneath to act as a wall to hide Aithusa – books, a carved wooden box and other trinkets his uncle Gaius had sent as birthday presents. Merlin set Aithusa on the bed while he rearranged everything to form a kind of cave for Aithusa to dive into when needed.

As Merlin worked, he suddenly remembered the light pouring from the dragon as it burned down to bones. He stopped and sat back, staring at the wall as though staring at a mirror into time, seeing the light and the burning as though it were happening at this very moment.

“Mum?” Merlin said.

“Yes?” Hunith said distractedly, cutting up chunks of goat meat for the stew.

“What happens to dragons when they die?”

“Merlin, I told you, we’ll figure out what to do with your dragon—“

“No,” Merlin cut in. “A dragon died, up on the bluff. It burned down to bone and there was this light and wind.”

The sound of the knife thunking against the wood of the butcher table stopped.

Then Hunith was there next to Merlin, taking him by the shoulders once again and turning him to face her. Aithusa was curled on the bed, watching like a curious cat.

Hunith was wide eyed as if frightened. “Merlin, what you mean a light?”

Merlin squirmed and wished he hadn’t said anything. He was going to get in trouble, he was sure of it. But he’d spoken and it was too late to take back his words.

“There was a dragon on the bluff. It was fighting a man in robes. They both died, but when the dragon died it burned and there was this… bright wind I guess. It was warm and seemed to go inside of me.” He looked at his mother imploringly. “Is that bad?”

Hunith’s lips forced themselves into a tremulous smile. “No, Merlin, it’s not bad.”

“But it’s not good, is it?” Merlin said quietly.

“I do not know what it means,” Hunith said. “But I do know it is not something you should worry yourself with. The ways of dragons can be very strange. Now go back to what you were doing, I need to ready the stew and I’m sure your dragon is hungry.”

Hunith went back to her chopping, and after a minute, Merlin went back to rearranging the things under his bed. He was distracted, thankfully, in the arduous task of training an infant dragon to hide on command, which would have been simple enough had the dragon not thought it some game in which it had to nose through the barrier of books and escape. That night, they ate a hearty stew of goat meat and vegetables, and Aithusa gorged on the left over bones and scraps until her belly bulged and she happily passed out in her nest of rags beneath the bed. Tom stopped by while they were washing up to bring Hunith a small bag of coins and a silver ring. Dragon bone was in high demand, and the Khajiit traders bought up half the lot of it. And since Merlin had pointed the way to the scuffle it had only been right that he got a share of it. 

As for the necromancer, his body had been burned far outside the town. Bad luck to have bodies like that lying around for anyone to reanimate, Tom had said. 

Merlin settled into his bed across from his mum’s, full and feeling pleased with himself over having been involved with the dragon enough to earn them some coin. His mum had wasted no time taking three of the coins and going to the traders, which Merlin thought rather odd, his mum being quite the coin pincher most of the time. It was even more surprising when she returned with a book. But, then, she did love to read, and she read in her rocking chair before the fire as Merlin drifted off, pouring almost obsessively over the pages of The Dragonborn.

~oOo~

Merlin woke to the sound of something scratching at the door. His sleep-fogged brain assumed it to be Henroath, their hound, and it took him a moment to remember that Henroath had died just this past winter. Merlin lifted his head and squinted his bleary eyes toward the door. The fire was low, but cast just enough light for him to see Aithusa’s milky hide, its blunted baby claws worrying at the door.

It had been two days since he’d come across the hatchling, and not once had it ever needed to go out in the middle of the night. But Merlin supposed there was a first time for everything. And since the night was free of any wolves howling, he supposed it was safe enough to let the dragon relieve itself of bodily needs. 

Merlin slid from the warmth of his bed, shuffled sleepily to the door, and slowly opened it so that it wouldn’t creak and wake his mum.

But rather than snuffle its way a few feet from the entrance, Aithusa took off like an arrow, bounding down the wooden steps straight toward the fence.

“Aithusa!” Merlin yelped. He went after it, but wasn’t in time to stop it from squeezing through the fence and out into the dangers of the night. Merlin skidded to a stop at the gate.

“Aithusa!” he hissed, his mind warring with itself, wanting him to go after the dragon but knowing that to leave the safety of the fence was to make himself vulnerable prey.

The decision was made for him when a great, dark shape landed at the top of the slope leading to the bluff. It had wings, whatever it was, and great horns crowned its head and back. There was only one creature Merlin knew of that looked like that, and Aithusa was scurrying straight toward it.

Merlin climbed over the fence and went after his dragon.

“Aithusa, stop, please!”

The dragon did stop, and looked from Merlin to the dragon. 

A chuckle rumbled through the cool night air like gentle thunder.

“Be at peace, little mage,” the dragon’s voice thrummed. It closed the distance between it and Aithusa, and as soon as it was near, Aithusa sat back on its haunches and touched both its small wing claw’s to the dragon’s one greater claw.

“I am not here to bring harm to you, your kind nor this little one. I have come to bring her home, in fact.”

With the dragon closer, Merlin could see it outlined in greater detail by the moonlight. Its scales flashed gold and copper, faded and worn in some places and its wings ragged at the edges. Whoever this dragon, it was old. Very old.

“Home?” Merlin echoed numbly. He was talking to a dragon – a grown, ancient dragon that could end his life in one bite.

“Yes, young mage,” the dragon said. “She was taken from our hatchery by a band of filthy, deceiving necromancers. Sadly, she is one of the few to have survived. I thank you, mage, for caring for her and ensuring her survival.”

“She?” Merlin said, growing more curious than afraid. He had heard more than enough tales of dragons, but for some reason it had always been assumed that all dragons were males, born from the dust at the whim of Akatosh. 

The dragon chuckled again. “Indeed, young mage. She.”

“Oh,” Merlin said, and not knowing what else to say, added, “Her name is Aithusa.”

The dragon lifted its great head at this. “She told you her name?” He tilted his head, studying Merlin with wide, golden eyes. “No dragon gives their name so freely.”

Merlin shifted uneasily. “I just thought it was because she liked me.”

The dragon smiled, but it was a knowing smile, one with an important and amazing secret. “Perhaps,” he said cryptically. “Dragon names, you see, are created of three words of power in the dragon tongue. The meaning of Aithusa’s name, to translate it roughly, means light of the sun. It is a good name, one that bodes a good future, I believe.”

“Oh,” Merlin said, not knowing what else to say.

The dragon lowered its great head, allowing Aithusa to climb onto the heavily spiked neck. A pang of loss not felt since Henroath had died made Merlin’s chest ache. As the dragon lifted his head, Aithusa peeked between its horns at Merlin and chirped sadly. 

“Worry not, little mage,” the dragon said. “I imagine you two will one day meet again, if her name is truly an omen of good. And should you find yourself in need of aid, call on me. I am Kilgarrah. It means – to put it simply – keeper of knowledge and time.” The dragon dipped its head once. “Farewell, little Dovhakiin.”

Merlin waved, more to Aithusa than Kilgarrah. “Bye.” But it was just as Kilgarrah lifted from the ground and began to fly away that Merlin thought to ask, “Wait, what did you call me?”

But the dragon was already sailing away into an aurora-painted night. 

TBC...


	2. Chapter 2

Eleven Years Later

Jarl Arthur Pendragon couldn’t believe it. He absolutely could not believe how the skinny little twat he’d gotten into a fight with only two days ago – and who had dared to use a frost spell on him (well, technically a puddle that Arthur then slipped on, giving the skinny twat the advantage, but like anyone else needed to know that particular detail) – was now his bloody manservant. How the hell did such things happen? Anyone could have used a fire spell against that Dark Brotherhood assassin. It was only sheer luck that Merlin had acted a little quicker than the guards. And it wasn’t as though Arthur had needed saving. He did know how to call on a shield spell. Yes, his reflexes when it came to the spell were a bit slow and the spell a bit short-lived more often than not, but that didn’t negate the fact that he could have taken the assassin down just as easily as Merlin.

But he hadn’t. Merlin had. And, now, apparently, Arthur had himself a personal servant. Thank goodness High King Uther hadn’t thought to make the twat Arthur’s Housecarl. There would’ve been no living it down for the rest of his days. 

But, still, personal servant? The boy was an idiot! An idiot expected to dress and serve the Jarl of Camelot. By the Divines, Arthur was doomed. It was some sort of punishment was all Arthur could figure. He had done something wrong, and so his father had saddled him with a moron as retribution.

Problem was, once High King Uther made a decree, there was no going back on it. Merlin was Arthur’s servant, and all Arthur could do was make the best of it – or find reasons to fire the idiot and replace him with a more competent servant. 

Arthur, now no longer in the presence of the High King, stomped through the halls of the Blue Palace. He was so preoccupied with his mental grumblings that his mind didn’t register the flash of blue and red until he was five steps beyond the object of his agitation. Arthur came to a halt, turned, and glared at the skinny twat currently sitting stiffly on a bench.

Irritation boiled close to fury until Arthur was clenching his hands into fists. Eyes narrowed, he marched straight back to Merlin who was looking at once both lost and increasingly nervous. Good. The twat deserved to be intimidated.

“You!” he said, pointing a rigid finger at the boy. “Were meant to be in my chambers packing my bags. Was that order too complicated for you or are you deliberately trying my patience?”

But rather than cower and quake as was due to the son of the high king when berating a servant, the twat had the audacity to smile sheepishly, as though annoying the son of the high king was no different than annoying the beggars who hung around the tavern.

“Er, actually, I got a bit lost,” The twat – Merlin – said. “Then got a bit turned around trying to find someone to ask where your chambers were. But you’re here now so I can just follow you,” he said it brightly as though all was now right in the world. 

Except all was not right in the world because Arthur had been assigned a moron as a manservant. By the Divines, this had to be a punishment, the silent kind meant to remind Arthur to be aware of his actions at all times, because Arthur was too old for his father to reprimand him on every little mistake (although not that it stopped his father from reprimanding, either). 

Arthur rolled his eyes, then grabbed the twat by the back of his ragged neckerchief, hauled him squawking with protest to his feet, and marched him two doors down the hall and into Arthur’s chambers.

“Oh,” Merlin said when Arthur released him. “Well, at least I was close.” The idiot then began rummaging through the various cupboards and chests until he unearthed Arthur’s bags. Packing, it seemed, was something the boy had at least _some_ grasp of. After dumping the bags onto the finely made bed, the boy proceeded to remove Arthur’s clothes from the drawers, fold them and place them neatly inside the bags. Granted, he could have been neater about it, but at least he wasn’t stuffing them inside with no regard toward expensive finery. 

Satisfied, Arthur vanished around his changing screen to change into his travel clothes – which Merlin should have had ready for him, but seeing as how Arthur wanted to leave sooner rather than later, the lessons in proper servant behavior could wait. 

“Sorry about that whole making you slip on the ice and all the other day,” Merlin said. “Well, okay, perhaps not all that sorry seeing as how you were going to take my head off with a mace.”

“Which wouldn’t have happened,” Arthur said tightly, practically tearing off his blue shirt and then yanking on his red shirt, “if you hadn’t decided to open your big mouth.”

“Actually, it wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t been throwing knives at a target being carried around on a living person’s back. What if you had missed?”

Arthur stuck his head around the screen so his glare would be visible. “Did I not tell you I’d been trained to kill since birth? And that means trained to also _not_ kill when the situation warrants it.”

Merlin, however, had his back to Arthur as he continued to fold clothes. “And did I not tell you I had learned to summon a shield before I learned to walk? Look, trained to kill or not, it doesn’t give you the right to go around throwing knives when it pleases you.”

“I can throw what I damn well please when I damn well please and I’ll thank you not to tell me what to do!” Arthur snapped, and for emphasis threw his recently removed blue shirt at Merlin’s head. 

“Obviously you weren’t trained in common courtesy since birth,” Merlin grumbled.

“What was that?” Arthur said, popping his head back out from behind the screen.

Merlin flashed him a look full of cherubic innocence. “What? Nothing. Didn’t say anything.”

Arthur prayed to the Divines to give him the patience not to strangle the twat’s scrawny neck. Really, now, who did this idiot think he was, talking to Arthur like that? But, then, that’s what stocks were for. Besides, Arthur supposed he had to grudgingly admit that there was something rather unfair about tossing someone who had never trained to serve into a servant position. Perhaps this was just as much a punishment for Merlin as it was for Arthur. The boy would have to learn eventually, though, but then that’s what the house steward was for. Lords, Arthur couldn’t wait to get back to Camelot.

Departure from Solitude took place well before noon, much to Arthur’s relief. Arthur and his contingent of guards, delegates, hunting dogs and servants rode through the city gates like a parade, with fanfare and tossed flowers and flags waving and cheering. As much as Arthur appreciated such show of loyalty, he was more than glad when they were beyond the gates, where the only noise was the clop of hooves and bird song. 

But there was still the journey, which Arthur was not looking forward to. A day and a half of following roads said to be the favorite hunting grounds of bandits. There were even rumors that a band of bandits had taken up residence in one of the old abandoned forts nearby. 

Arthur glanced back at his contingent, his knights and guards in the red livery of Camelot, the more simply dressed servants - some in the wagons with the luggage and supplies - and toward the very back, his idiot man servant riding alongside his court mage, Gaius. Arthur had overheard something about Merlin being Gaius’ nephew, which was fortunate. Perhaps being around Gaius would put some intelligence in that dull head of Merlin’s. Arthur could not understand that boy’s incompetence. Just today, as the luggage, supplies and gifts were being loaded onto the wagon, Merlin had tripped over his feet three times and nearly shattered an ancient and expensive Dwemer-made urn. The boy wasn’t just useless, he was also a hazard. Arthur looked forward to having a reason to fire him.

The first leg of their journey was near-uneventful, although Arthur didn’t think a run-in with an infant frost spider could be called eventful. Leon had made short work of it with only one thrust of his blade, and without having to dismount. 

They managed to find a clearing before nightfall and set up camp, where Merlin once again proved his incompetence by setting up Arthur’s bedroll at a fire _not_ in the center of the camp. Thank the Divines Arthur hadn’t acted on his impulse to make Merlin cook out of spite. The last thing they needed was to sleep on empty stomachs because the idiot had burned the meals. 

The night passed just as uneventfully as the day, and the party woke refreshed and ready to reach home. Arthur shoved all thoughts of idiot manservants out of his mind. Being this close to home, he turned his thoughts to all the recent bandit activities. Bandits were always bad this time of year, it being after Frostfall and all, but reports had been coming in of the attacks being unnaturally numerous as well as uncalled for. Not even peasants too poor to be of any interest were being attacked, and not just on the road. Arthur’s last report had told of two boys on their way to the river for a bit of fishing and barely escaping a group of burly bandits with their lives. 

But the truly odd thing was that the youths could have sworn the bandits were being ordered about by a mage. And not just any mage, but one wearing black robes – a necromancer. In fact, when Arthur had looked through his stack of previous reports, he discovered other accounts of the bandits being aided by mages in black. 

Which in itself wasn’t unusual – necromancers were known to hire bandits and mercenaries to keep soldiers and peasants from snooping around their projects. But so long as you left a necromancer alone, they left you alone… unless they spotted you even if all you were doing was happening by. What was unusual was to have so many necromancers being spotted with so many bandits. 

Something was wrong, terribly wrong, and Arthur looked forward to finally being able to look into the matter in peace, without his father inviting him to yet another banquet (and only to chew Arthur out for not doing something about all these bandits). 

Arthur was broken from his train of thought when he saw, not far ahead, Beggar’s pass – a corridor of high, sheer rock walls that would temporarily close them it. It was a short pass, but an excellent spot for an ambush. 

The hunting dogs began to growl, their fur bristling. 

“Steady, men,” Arthur said, drawing his sword. “Could be a buck, but keep your eyes and ears open.” He looked back long enough to see his men drawing their blades or readying their arrows. 

Sure enough – because bandits were predictable if nothing else – the party had yet to reach the pass when Arthur gave a nod to the hound master, who released two of the hounds to go bounding into the shrubs only to come bounding back out nipping at the heels of two bandits. 

It resulted in an immediate chain reaction, robbing Arthur of his brief moment of smug triumph when a flood of bandits poured bellowing onto the path, waving weapons and a few already firing arrows. It was practically an army, the most numbers Arthur had ever seen in a bandit raid, more than enough to pose a difficult challenge for even Arthur’s men. And that meant only one thing.

This group, whoever they were and whoever they were led by, had known Arthur and his people were coming. This raid had been set up especially for them. 

“Defend!” Arthur cried. And his men, already having formed a protective circle around the wagons and servants, first unleashed their arrows and then switched to swords and – for those who knew any spells – magic. Arthur cut down two men before they had a chance to so much as swing their blades, but the third with the long sword was proving difficult.

The distraction cost Arthur. Three more men came up on his other flank and pulled him from his excited horse. Only a well-timed spell from one of his men knocking the men off their feet allowed Arthur time to get back on his own. And just in time when he was swarmed, bandits coming from all direction, backing him and his entourage into a tighter circle. Arthur was barely allowed a long enough reprieve to visually place the position of his men. The few glances he could manage showed him his men fighting valiantly but many already slain, servants having joined the fray and even that idiot Merlin tossing fire alongside Gaius. 

But it was no use. The bandits were closing in, and the number of Arthur’s men brutally dropping. 

Then Arthur heard a shout, which would have meant little to him had it not been such a loud, powerful shout coming from what were the scrawny lungs of an equally scrawny manservant. It was a shout that seemed to shake the very bones of the world, said in a language as old as time itself. 

But when nothing happened beyond startling a few bandits, Arthur immediately put it out of his mind except for the hasty mental note to have a few words with his new manservant… if they survived this. 

Another roar soon followed Merlin’s bellowing cry, and this one was most definitely not human. Once again Arthur was given no time to think on it when a pillar of flames suddenly erupted from out of the sky, scorching the outer ring of bandits to burnt husks. And following on the heels of that fire was the source – a dragon. A white dragon, about as big as a horse but no less lethal. It shot back into the sky only to come around for another go, scattering the bandits when it released another plume of flames. 

A second dragon joined it, this on massive and golden. All this dragon had to do was roar, and the bandits gave up the fight and fled save for a battle-mad few. Those few were either killed or quickly subdued.

The battle ended just as quickly as it had begun, a new battle about to take its place as Arthur called for his men to ready for a second attack by the dragons.

The dragons didn’t attack. They landed several yards away, making no move to continue the fight on the ground. Arthur and his men stood at the ready, waiting. Which Merlin, the fool, took as his cue to go completely mad, break from the circle of protection, and approach the two dragons as if they were nothing more than dogs waiting for a pat on the head and a treat. 

The white dragon bounded straight toward Merlin. Arthur’s heart shot into his throat. He took a breath, about to shout at the archers to fire…

When the dragon reached Merlin, crouched, and Merlin patted it on the head.

Next to Arthur, Gwaine snorted. “Well, now I can officially say I’ve seen everything.”

Thunder, or what sounded like thunder, rumbled through the sky – a completely empty sky with not a storm cloud in sight. And riding that thunder in a voice similar to what Merlin had used only moments ago, was a word. 

“Dovhakiin.”

Silence immediately followed. 

Until Gwaine chuffed. “And heard everything.”

TBC...


	3. Chapter 3

This was bad. This was so very, very bad. Merlin wasn’t quite sure just how bad, but it must have been quite high on the “all things very bad” scale, if there was such a thing. He was currently sitting between two dragons, with several very nervous soldiers standing guard between him and the camp currently being erected near the pass, Arthur giving very sharp and clipped orders – punctuated by very sharp gestures – and occasionally glancing at Merlin as though he were a draugr liable to jump from his crypt at any moment. He would pause, on occasion, to talk to Gaius who was following close behind. But whatever Gaius had to say only seemed to make the Jarl’s frown that much deeper.

If that didn’t add up to things being very, very bad, Merlin didn’t know what did. 

And if things weren’t very, very bad enough, Kilgarrah was smiling – _smiling_ – as though everything that had happened and was happening was the most brilliant and amusing thing he’d seen in a thousand years. 

Merlin didn’t care if Kilgarrah was a very large and ancient dragon, he glared up at him, anyway.

“You do realize that he could order his men to run us through at a moment’s notice, don’t you?” Merlin said. 

“Peace, young mage,” Kilgarrah said. “The young jarl intends nothing of the sort, and he would be a fool to try if he did.”

Merlin narrowed his eyes. “Are you telling me that dragons can read minds? Because based on what I’m seeing, Arthur doesn’t exactly look all that pleased with the situation.”

Kilgarrah had the audacity to chuckle. “No, young mage, dragons cannot read minds. But were your Jarl to run us through, as you say, he would have done so by now.”

“Maybe he’s taking his time to figure out the quickest and easiest way to go about it,” Merlin said, eyeing Arthur nervously as the Jarl continued to oversee the camp. “I mean, we save his life, and he tells us to stay put or else, surrounds us with guards and keeps looking at me like I’m another bandit hoard on the bloody horizon? How am I supposed to read anything positive into that?”

“Did you not hear the shout on the wind? The call for the Dovhakiin?” Kilgarrah said.

“I did, actually. Right before Arthur had his archers point their arrows at us.”

“It was the call of the Greybeards,” Kilgarrah went on. “A summons, in point of fact, and one not to be taken lightly. Your Jarl knows this. Or if he doesn’t, he is at least being informed of the matter by his court mage. Were Arthur to lift his sword against you in harm, the Greybeards would not be pleased.”

Merlin watched Arthur with a thoughtful frown as the Jarl continued to both delegate and discuss matters with Gaius. Kilgarrah was right, as much as Merlin hated to admit it since it still did nothing to settle his nerves. But the Greybeards, while peaceful in nature, were highly revered in Skyrim and when they called, you listened. And they had just called. They were the masters of the Way of the Voice – the dragon tongue that was at once both a language and a power, as Merlin had just demonstrated (and mostly by accident).

Which was the other half of why Merlin was so uneasy. He’d shouted, using the words Kilgarrah had taught him all those years ago when a young boy had saved a hatchling. He’d shouted, the Greybeards had heard him, and had now summoned him by the name of Dovhakiin. 

There was only one problem – there was no possible way Merlin was the Dovhakiin, the Dragonborn, the one gifted with knowledge of the Voice. He couldn’t be Dragonborn. The Dragonborn were warriors, gifted in fighting or magic, or fighting _and_ magic. And, yes, while Merlin did have an aptitude for spells that far surpassed most his age he was still… still bloody Merlin. From a hamlet that was barely even a dot on any of the maps. There was no possible way in this world or the next that he could be the Dragonborn. 

And that meant the Greybeards had made a mistake, and that they were going to be incredibly unhappy when they found out. 

Merlin sagged in dejection, resting his chin on his knees. “Oh, gods,” he groaned miserably. “This is so very bad.”

A hard nudge to his shoulder nearly knocked him down, but it didn’t matter how he glowered at Aithusa, the little white dragon continued her bruising attempts at nuzzling.

“It’s okay, Dovhakiin. Everything will be okay,” she chirped.

“Please don’t call me that, I’m not the Dovhakiin,” Merlin moaned.

“Oh, but you are, young mage,” Kilgarrah said. 

“No. No, I’m not. I’m lucky I remembered that call you taught me, that’s all.”

“A Shout that would have taken the Greybeards years to master,” Kilgarrah countered. “Only the Dovhakiin can master a Shout on the first try. You are the Dragonborn, little mage. It is no mistake.”

But it had to be. It had to. 

But Merlin wasn’t allowed to argue the matter further (which was probably for the best. He had little ammunition in which to argue with, and anything more he had to say would mostly be whining), when Arthur finally approached, Gaius following close behind, the older man’s anxiety betrayed by his hands hanging at his sides instead of being folded together in his usual serene pose.

Arthur still didn’t look happy as he stood before Merlin, first staring at the dragons, then staring down at him.

“So,” Arthur said. “You’re the Dragonborn.”

They stared at each other in a moment of agonizing silence, Merlin nervously, Arthur expressing nothing.

Until Arthur turned to Gaius and said in an exasperation verging on a whine, “Really, him? Gaius, are you absolutely, positively sure?”

Gaius shrugged helplessly. “The proof is before us, my Jarl. He summoned two dragons with a Shout, the dragons are here before us, and the Greybeards have sent their summons. You know the old legends as well as I do. The Greybeards only summon the Dovhakiin when the Dovhakiin sounds his or her first Shout. Merlin Shouted and the summons followed.”

“Oh, gods,” Arthur groaned, his face twisted as though he had just sucked on a lemon. He looked at Merlin, and groaned louder, “Oh, gods. Him? Of all the people in this land, it has to be him? He can barely pack my luggage without nearly killing himself!”

“Hey!” Merlin protested.

Arthur ignored it. He said, after heaving out a put-upon sigh, “I guess I’m going to have to give him leave to go to High Hrothgar. You are free to take him to the Greybeards, dragon.”

Kilgarrah snorted out a puff of breath through his nostrils that kicked up a small dust devil, and laughed. “Oh, were it that easy, Jarl Pendragon. But the Thousand Steps are not there simply for those without the means to fly. The climb is to be part of the Dragonborn’s training, to learn the history of the Way of the Voice as well as to test his resolve and hone his skills.”

Merlin swallowed loudly. “You mean fighting skills.” He looked imploringly to Gaius. “Except I don’t have fighting skills. I don’t even know any Shouts except the one.” He looked twice as imploringly to Kilgarrah. “Please, can’t you just take me?”

“Peace, young mage,” Kilgarrah said, patting the air with his wing claw. “Peace. It is not as treacherous as it seems, nor do you have to go alone.” He then looked at Arthur keenly. “In fact, I highly advise that he doesn’t make this journey alone at all.”

“I suppose I could spare a few men to accompany him,” Arthur said.

“Actually,” Kilgarrah said, “I was thinking more along the lines of you escorting him, young Jarl.”

The look of utter shock on Arthur’s face was enough for Merlin to momentarily forget his predicament and smirk.

“Me!” Arthur nearly squeaked. “Do you even know who I am, you bloody great lizard? I’m the son of the High King, the Jarl of Camelot…”

“Whose destiny is entwined with that of the Dragonborn,” Kilgarrah cut in impatiently. “The coming of the Dovhakiin is no small matter, Pendragon. His presence means a danger that will affect this entire plane, a danger that only the Dragonborn can defeat.”

Merlin groaned again, burying his face in his hands.

“But not alone,” Kilgarrah went on. 

“What danger is it that plagues us, now?” Gaius asked.

At this, the dragon frowned thoughtfully. “I do not know. Not for certain. The last time the Dragonborn came, it was at the return of Alduin. But although the return was foreseen, the exact time of his return was not. As it was then, it is now, but in reverse. My kind knew of a time – an exact time – when the Dragonborn would return, but we do not know why. We were warned of his coming in dreams sent by our father Akatosh, with instructions that when the Dovhakiin appeared we were to aid him, for our fates rested on his shoulders just as much as the rest of the world.”

Merlin swallowed against a tightening throat. 

“And these have been dire times for my kind,” Kilgarrah said. “Our nests are being raided and our unhatched young stolen. If this is in connection to the Dovhakiin’s return, I do not know, but neither do I find it a coincidence.” 

“Great,” Arthur growled. “Wonderful. Absolutely brilliant.” He then stomped off, shouting orders to take down the camp that had just finished being put together, because they had to make it home to Camelot to prepare for another journey in order to make sure the Dragonborn didn’t slip and break his neck on the way to High Hrothgar – Arthur’s words exactly. 

Merlin remained where he was, fighting valiantly not to fall apart.

~oOo~

Camelot was… spectacular. Nothing like Solitude, of course, but very close in rivaling it with its massive shining white citadel on a hill and its high walls surrounding the village. Its streets were pleasantly crowded, full of the sounds and smells of a city getting on with life. Merlin rather envied the townsfolk and their lack of world-saving destiny. 

But that was all Merlin had time to both admire and think of when he was immediately set to work helping to prepare for his quest. Which, really, he didn’t have a problem with – he liked being helpful – but Arthur could at least have been a little less condescending about it with his “Dragonborn or no Dragonborn you’re still my manservant and I will not have you shirking your duties.” If Arthur found it awkward to have the Dovhakiin readying a new, freshly polished set of armor and sharpening his sword, he didn’t show it. 

Merlin, on the other hand, felt even less like the Dovhakiin than he already did, especially without the dragons no longer around to remind everyone that, yes, the skinny peasant boy was in fact the Dragonborn and that the arrival of two dragons answering his shout had not been the product of a skooma-induced hallucination. It also didn’t help that he was being sent on errands through a castle he knew absolutely nothing about.

Thank the Nine for Gaius, that was all he could say. His uncle had been less than happy that the revelation of Merlin’s destiny had been regarded as more of an annoyance than an urgency. He’d been very aware of Merlin’s shock over the matter, so had taken pity on him and asked a young serving girl named Gwen to help him where and when she could – mostly by pointing him in the right direction every time he got lost. 

By the time he had finished preparing everything, Merlin went straight back to Gaius’ chambers (as straight as he could after two wrong turns), bypassed the dinner of stew on the table, and went straight to his new room where he collapsed unconscious on the bed. 

He then woke when the sun had yet to rise, quite certain it had only been two minutes ago that he’d fallen asleep.

Merlin was still asleep – or half asleep at any rate – on top of his horse. And he supposed it was at least somewhat of a courtesy that he got to ride more toward the front of their little expedition than the back, where he would have been more liable to be picked off by a bear or bandit. But contrary to Arthur’s popular belief, Merlin was no idiot. His being up front was less about courtesy and more about Arthur not taking any chances. Which made Merlin feel not unlike an important piece of baggage. 

Their party was a small one, made up mostly of Arthur, his most trusted knights, Gaius, Merlin of course, a chap named George to drive the wagon, the serving girl Gwen and the Lady Morgana – who Merlin had only just met this morning when Morgana arrived from the College of Winterhold, unannounced, declaring that she’d had a vision in which terrible things happened and that Arthur could use her skills in conjuration, and he might as well accept the situation because she wasn’t taking no for an answer.

Merlin had decided then and there that Morgana was his hero simply for the look she had put on Arthur’s face. 

Their party was dressed plainly, incognito as a harmless human trading caravan on their way to Ivarstead to deliver goods to the Greybeards. Their journey was uneventful save for the wolf attack or two. Merlin found it ironic how a practical army escorting royals could attract so much attention while a caravan went mostly ignored. 

Although the occasional appearance of Kilgarrah and Aithusa flying overhead might have helped. The dragons never stayed long, not wanting to draw the attention of whoever or whatever was putting the world in danger, but Merlin could always sense them nearby. 

It took two days to skirt the base of the great mountain known as the Throat of the World, and reach the tiny village at the foot of The Seven Thousand Steps. 

But to talk to Kilgarrah meant having to travel back out of Ivarstead quite a ways so as not to cause a panic. It was only Arthur and Merlin who went… and the knight’s for safety, not that they were really needed. Merlin managed to deal with the baby frost spider quite well on his own with a fire spell, thank you very much. But, gods, these woods were hazardous. 

“We’ve arrived, dragon,” Arthur said rudely. “Just to make a bloody climb because you refuse to carry us.”

“Arthur,” Merlin hissed, elbowing him hard. “Dragons, remember?”

“Yes, dragons, with wings and great strength and the means to hurry things along. But no. We have to climb seven thousand steps, and while we’re climbing the world could very well end and we not know it.”

“I assure you, young Jarl, that if worlds were meant to end quickly, this world would have passed ages ago” Kilgarrah said patiently. “Whatever is happening to bring about the return of the Dragonborn, it will still be waiting for you when you journey back from the mountain. Now, I suggest you rest for as long as you can. You have a long climb ahead of you and I would hate to see this quest fail simply due to fatigue.”

And with that parting admonition, Kilgarrah flew off, Aithusa close behind. 

“Bloody lizard,” Arthur griped, stomping back to the village and completely ignoring Merlin’s presence. Merlin trotted after him until he managed to catch up.

“You know,” Merlin said thoughtfully. “I’d think you’d be more thrilled.”

Arthur glared at him.

“Well, not about the climb, of course,” Merlin snapped. “I meant about this whole saving the world business. You’re a warrior, aren’t warriors supposed to be – I don’t know – always itching for adventure and such?”

“There’s a big difference between ‘itching for adventure’ as you say and hopping off to fulfill some vague destiny. I like to know what I’m getting into before I get into it. It’s a strategy thing, you see. Not that you’d understand anything about strategy.”

Oh, that was it. Merlin glowered darkly at Arthur. “I know about strategy. Just like I know that life isn’t always all that accommodating. It’s not going to provide you with all the bloody answers you need. I mean, just look at me. A few days ago I was nothing more than a peasant. Now, I’m the bloody Dragonborn destined to save the bloody world. Really, you think not having all the answers is a problem? Try being the bloke who doesn’t have the answers, the fighting skills, or one bloody idea what being the Dragonborn means except that I need to be careful how I shout at people if I don’t want to accidentally kill them. So don’t whine to me about the complications of life and destiny.”

Merlin quickened his pace, fueled by the return of his frustration and dread over what lay ahead. In truth, he wasn’t even frustrated at Arthur (although he was very fed up with Arthur’s flippant complaints about the matter). And he couldn’t help wondering what it was Arthur was truly frustrated about – the enigmatic nature of the quest, or that it was his bumbling manservant who had been the one charged with saving the world, and not him? 

TBC...


	4. Chapter 4

Arthur had been right in his assumptions. Merlin was most definitely a girl. He certainly threw a tantrum that could rival one of Morgana’s. 

Except that as much as Arthur wanted to pass off what Merlin had said as being nothing more than pouting, damn it all if the skinny twat didn’t also have a point. Because as annoying as this quest was with its cryptic dragons and cryptic destiny, at least Arthur was far more prepared for it than Merlin. The boy had his magic and Shouts, yes, but having magic and the ability to yell an enemy down did not automatically make one a warrior. 

But therein lay the rub, because had it just been Arthur’s destiny and his alone then things would have been a little more fine and dandy. Arthur knew how to fight. But it wasn’t Arthur’s destiny, it was Arthur’s and Merlin’s – a man trained to fight since birth and a peasant more skilled with tripping over his own feet than with a sword. And if this destiny involved quite a bit of fighting – which Arthur was sure it would. A tale of destiny didn’t make it as a tale by being uneventful – then that meant it would also involve quite a lot of watching Merlin’s back so that he didn’t die before he did… whatever it was he was destined to do. 

Which also begged the question of what, exactly, was expected of Merlin? The boy couldn’t fight, and while he did toss fire about rather impressively (at least where baby frost spiders were concerned, but even a child could kill a baby frost spider), it wouldn’t mean much should the creature or person they would find themselves up against happened to be handy with a shield spell.

And, were Arthur to be honest with himself, it bothered him. It bothered him greatly that instead of calling on some warrior or, hell, even a mage or thief, destiny had called on a skinny, nearly helpless twat to save the day. And then appointing Arthur – Jarl of Camelot and heir to the empire – as his protection. Add it all up, and it meant only one thing.

Destiny had a very sick sense of humor. 

A hard, almost painful clap on the shoulder startled Arthur out of his dour reverie. He glanced over his shoulder and rolled his eyes at a troubled Gwaine.

“Princess, don’t tell me you just made the Dragonborn cry,” Gwaine said. 

Arthur shoved Gwaine’s hand away irritably. “No, I did not make him cry. Lords, Gwaine, the boy may be a girl’s petticoat but even he can’t be that emotionally fragile.”

Gwaine shrugged. “I don’t know. If I were him I’d be a sobbing mess right now, what with the whole saving the world business. It can’t be easy having that kind of weight on your shoulders.”

Arthur glowered. “Oh, you think so? How about being the one who has to keep him alive until he accomplishes what he needs to accomplish? I mean, seriously, what was destiny thinking, appointing that… that…?” he gestured vaguely in the direction of Merlin’s narrow, distant back. “That as the Dragonborn? Out of all the people in all the world, it goes for… Merlin?”

Gwaine shrugged nonchalantly. “Well, look at it this way. We’ve all read the old tales and heard the bards sing. We know destiny’s seen this world-saving business through with the people it chose. So just because we don’t know why it chose Merlin doesn’t mean there isn’t a reason. You need to have more faith in the lad _and_ this destiny business.”

Arthur grunted a noncommittal reply. He supposed Gwaine had a point, but that didn’t mean Arthur had to like it.

~oOo~

Arthur had made sure to have the innkeeper wake them all before dawn. The earlier they set out, the sooner they could get this over with. But Arthur was already starting to have his doubts. While he was certain his men would be able to make the climb without problem, and that Morgana would have no problems with the altitude and height having spent her days at Winterhold, that still left George, Gwen and Merlin.

George, however – despite his willingness to serve – was more than happy to stay behind with the wagon. And Gwen promised up and down that if she could handle the many stairs of Camelot, then the Seven Thousand Steps should be nothing.

Merlin also promised he could make it and that he was hardier than he looked. Arthur had him bundled up in extra shirts and cloaks, anyway.

The start of the stairs up the mountain was on the other side of the river. It was a pleasant go, at first – the day cool and clear, and the view quite spectacular the higher they went. Then the air became colder, thinner, forcing more stops so that the weaker members of their party – namely Merlin – could catch their breath. They had to stop at each of the shrines, read the inscriptions and learn the history of the dragon wars, the shouts, Alduin, and Paarthurnax who had taken pity on man.

Then came the snow, ice and winds that seemed to cut straight through them like a blade. The steps became more treacherous, and soon Merlin wasn’t the only one slipping and tripping. The higher they struggled to climb, the more volatile the wind became, pushing at them, deafening them with its howling and blinding them with snow. Merlin’s staggering and tripping increased to the point that Percival had to keep an arm around his waist to keep him upright. 

“Arthur!” Arthur heard Morgana call, her hand outstretched as she summoned a flame Atronach. “Arthur, this was the scene in my vision. The danger’s close by.” 

A fire Atronach glowed like an ember against the shroud of snow. Arthur drew his sword, as did the others. Everyone knew better than to not listen to one of Morgana’s predictions.

Arthur heard the grunt of a frost troll from somewhere overhead. But the thing didn’t appear until it had already leaped to the ground, right behind Percival and Merlin.

“Percival, behind you!” Arthur cried. 

Percival whirled around, bringing a snow-blind and exhausted Merlin with him. But he distracted himself by pushing Merlin aside out of range of the troll, and the troll took immediate advantage. It swiped Percival across the chest, sending him flying. 

Then it turned to Merlin. The boy was still on the ground, clutching at his side. He looked up as the beast charged, gaped for a heartbeat then scrambled back until his way was blocked by a wall of rock.

“Use your magic you blithering idiot!” Arthur shouted, charging at the beast with his sword raised. A ball of fire from the Atronach exploded against the troll’s side, slowing it long enough for Arthur and the rest of his knights to converge. They moved like in a dance, one going forward to slash the thing with their sword, then skipping back out of range of the massive claws for another knight to go in and have his go. And in between, ball of fire after ball of fire from both the Atronach and Morgana, while Gwen stayed wisely out of the way, crouched behind a boulder. 

But the problem with trolls was that they healed remarkably fast, and for each cut dealt another cut was already sealing up. And to make matters even more difficult than they already were, the troll was dead set on reaching their weakest member, Merlin. 

Merlin, finally getting his head on straight, thrust out his palm and sent a jet of flames straight at the troll.

And nearly singed both Leon and Elyan in the process.

“Damn it, Merlin, aim!” Arthur shouted.

The boy tried again, this time searing the beast, and between the fire and the slashing, the troll finally weakened. Arthur lunged in, swiping at the neck and opening the throat, and the troll collapsed in a heap of white fur.

The mountain path was near silent save for the howling wind and the group’s harsh breathing. Arthur wiped his sword clean on an embankment of snow before sheathing the weapon. He then hurried over to where Percival was trying to get to his feet.

“Easy, Percival. Let’s look at the damage.”

Percival, his neck and face spattered with blood, waved him off. “It’s fine, it got more of my armor than me and I took a healing potion.”

“Yeah, but those potions take time,” said Elyan, joining Arthur in having a closer look at the wound. But while it was obvious the bleeding had stopped and the four gashes were not that deep, that was still quite a bit of blood that had been lost. 

Arthur left Percival to be tended by Elyan, and stomped over to Merlin. The boy was being helped to his feet by both Morgana and Gwen while the Atronach patrolled the immediate area. 

“You!” Arthur snarled, pointing a rigid finger at Merlin. “Are bloody useless! Who the hell just sits there while a troll is bearing down on them and only thinks to act when the battle is half over, hm?”

“Arthur, lay off,” Morgana snapped. “He was injured falling down. And even you have to admit that having a troll charge at you can make it hard to think.”

“But he’s the one who’s supposed to save the bloody world! What if something worse comes after him next time, and the rest of us are too bloody busy to protect him? That’s it. You’re getting some training, even if all I manage to get you to do is aim a sword in the right direction. Come on, we need to keep going.”

Morgana’s glare became scorching, and she tightened her grip on a dazed but nervous Merlin’s arm.

“Did you not just hear me say he’s injured?”

Arthur eyed Merlin’s hand currently clutching his ribs and stained with blood.

“And, what, he can’t take a healing draught or use a healing spell?” he asked.

“Just did,” Merlin slurred. “Doesn’t seem to be helping.”

“It’s the cold,” Morgana said. “His blood is sluggish and the potion is taking longer to get through his system. He can’t move any quicker.”

Arthur gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. “Well we can’t remain out here waiting for it to finally work. We’ll all freeze to death at this rate.”

“I’m not asking us to wait, I’m asking to take it slow,” Morgana said. “Gwen and I will support him the rest of the way until he can stand on his own.”

“Fine,” Arthur snapped. He turned away, heading up the path and grumbling about skinny idiots with no fat on their bones to keep them warm and stubborn dragons who seemed intent on killing them through nature. 

Percival was already regaining his strength thanks to the potions, but Morgana was right about Merlin. The potions were working, but slowly, and he continued needing the support the rest of the way. But it wasn’t long before their group came around the bend and saw, not far away, the dark, looming citadel of the Greybeards.

“Oh, th-thank the g-gods,” Gwaine groaned in relief. With the citadel in sight, the group’s freezing limbs mustered enough strength to hurry quickly up the steps to the great iron doors. It took both Percival and Leon to heave them open, the hinges moaning deeper than the wind. They entered the dark, cavernous hall of High Hrothgar, with its storm gray walls and ancient carvings. A massive fire crackled merrily between the steps leading to the back entries of the citadel, and the group didn’t wait for an invitation to gather around it and warm their bones. 

“Welcome, Dragonborn,” boomed a voice, one that was at once both soft but full of a power that shook them to their souls. The group spun around, Arthur feeling not unlike a child stealing sweets from the kitchen. 

Five men in heavy gray robes now surrounded the party, but rather than chastise them for entering without permission, the men bowed, their hands hidden within their voluminous sleeves. 

“Um,” Arthur stuttered, then remembered that he was the jarl, these were the Greybeards, and now was not the time to be intimidated (even if these men could blow him away with only a word). “Yes, thank you. We have come in answer to your summons and hope to receive your council in return. We…”

But Arthur was halted when the middle-most Greybeard raised his hand, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Patience, Dragonborn. All in good time.”

Arthur, for a moment, could only gape. 

“Um,” he stuttered again. “Actually, I’m not the Dragonborn.” He arched his thumb over his shoulder at Merlin. “He is.”

The Greybeards turned their heads as one to the barely standing boy huddled and shivering in both a cloak and a blanket. It took a moment for Merlin – who was obviously still very much out of his head with fatigue – to realize he was being stared at with great intensity. When he did realize it, his eyes darted around as if only now realizing where he was, and when his gaze landed on the Greybeards, his face drained quickly of color. 

“Oh, um…. I answered your call,” he said.

The middle-most Greybeard raised an eyebrow curiously. Which Merlin apparently proceeded to take as a sign of disapproval, when his face lost another quart of blood and his knees buckled. He would have hit the floor quite spectacularly had Morgana and Gwen not been holding him up, and Percival – now much more recovered – wasted no time in swooping in and scooping the boy up. 

Arthur sighed wearily, then smiled tightly. “You wouldn’t happen to have a place where we could put the savior of the world to rest for a spell, would you?”

~oOo~

Merlin opened his eyes and saw only gray, gray and more gray. It didn’t matter how many times he blinked or squeezed his eyes shut, the gray wouldn’t go away.

“Ah, you are finally awake.”

Merlin turned his head and widened his still-heavy eyelids as much as he could at the gray-bearded man in the dark gray robe. The man smiled at him.

“Fret not, young man. You are safe. I am Iseldir, speaker for the Greybeards.”

Then Merlin remembered – the trek to High Hrothgar, the troll, Percival injured and Arthur pissed because Merlin hadn’t reacted fast enough. A sudden surge of panic made him bolt upright, only for pain to ripple across his ribs and drop him back against the creaky wooden bed. 

“The others, are they all right? What of Percival, did he—?”

Iseldir placed a gnarled but strong hand on Merlin’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“They are safe, Dragonborn. Much better off than you at the moment.” Iseldir moved his hand from Merlin’s shoulder to his forehead. “Your injuries and the cold sapped you of much strength. We have given you potions, but they are working slowly. So it may be another day yet before you cease to feel the pain of your injuries.”

Iseldir then placed his hand on Merlin’s chest over his heart, and after a moment of feeling its beat, nodded in satisfaction. “But the potions are working.” He smiled cheerily. “You will live.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good to know,” Merlin said, shifting and trying to get more comfortable, but the ache in his side was persistent. 

“I also wish to apologize.”

Merlin looked up at Iseldir in alarm. “Um, apologize?”

The old man nodded solemnly. “For assuming the young Jarl to be the Dragonborn.”

“Oh,” Merlin said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Don’t worry about it. To be honest I would’ve been shocked if you’d assumed right on the first go.” He grinned. “I’m not exactly what people picture when they think of the Dragonborn, am I?”

But the grin faltered when his mind flitted back to the troll, and Percival nearly knocked from the mountainside by the creature’s massive arm. 

“To be honest, I’m not turning out to be much of a Dragonborn at all.” Merlin dug the heel of his hand into his aching forehead. “By the Nine, I barely survived a troll and a bit of snow, how in the world am I expected to save… well, you know, the world?” He looked back up at Iseldir. “Wait, am I even the Dragonborn? Are you sure I didn’t accidentally just learn some Shout and you’re not making another assumption?”

The patient smile on Iseldir’s face made Merlin think of his mother, and the times Merlin would shower her with childish questions that had seemed so important and frightening to his young mind. 

“My boy,” Iseldir said, “I joined the order of the Greybeards when I was no older than you, but did not master my first Shout until five years had passed. Only the Dragonborn can use a shout without years of study and meditation. No shout is learned by accident. But if you are still in doubt, then let us test your ability when you are ready.”

Merlin struggled to sit up, “I’m ready now.”

But Iseldir’s hand on his chest stopped him. “You are recovering. Rest, first, then eat, and we will see if you have enough strength for the testing.”

Merlin slumped back into the bed with a scowl, but seeing as how the attempt alone to sit up had winded him, neither did he try to argue. 

He did ask, knowing that he’d be unable to rest until he did, “Do you know what’s happening? Why there’s a Dragonborn in the world again?”

“I’m afraid not,” Iseldir said solemnly. “When you are well we will convene a council with master Paarthurnax. He has been speaking with his kin and learning what he can of the matter – or what constitutes the matter.”

“Who?” Merlin said, rubbing at his eyes. Sleep was creeping back up on him and he was more than ready to let it take him back under.

“The leader of our order, but that is a discussion for another time. Rest, young man. We will talk more, later.”

Merlin again did as told, and again because he didn’t have a choice.

When Merlin next woke it was to Gwen sitting beside the bed, a bowl of stew in one hand while her other hand gently shook his shoulder. When his eyes opened, she smiled.

“Feeling better?” she asked.

Merlin smiled back. “Much.”

“Good.” She then set the small bowl on the nightstand by the bed, and then with surprising strength, helped Merlin to sit up. “And just in time for dinner.” With Merlin upright and supported by a stack of pillows, Gwen retook the bowl and handed in to Merlin. He took it eagerly, his stomach being rather loud in its complaints, and he began shoveling the hot beef stew into his mouth.

Gwen laughed. “Not so quickly or you’ll make yourself sick.”

Merlin winced. “Sorry,” and forced himself to slow down. “Feels like forever since I last ate. Where is everyone?”

“Sitting around waiting for you to wake up, actually,” Gwen said. “The Greybeards refuse to have a meeting until you’re ready. Arthur’s getting quite anxious about it.”

Merlin grimaced. “Great. Knowing him, I’ll be the one he takes it out on.”

Gwen’s expression softened sympathetically. “He’s merely worried about whatever it is that is threatening the world. We may not know what is happening but that doesn’t mean time isn’t of the essence.”

“I know,” Merlin said, feeling suddenly less hungry even after only five quick bites. “He’s not the only one who feels that way.”

Gwen, looking suddenly appalled, placed a comforting touch on Merlin’s wrist. “Oh, no, Merlin. He’s not blaming you…”

At Merlin’s painfully skeptical look, Gwen smiled reassuringly, “Morgana won’t let him.”

“But he is blaming me,” Merlin said. “Even if he’s not doing it out loud.” He set the bowl on the table and then proceeded to throw back the blankets while swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, ignoring Gwen’s protests and attempts to stop him. “And beside, he’s right. Time probably is of the essence and we’re wasting it.” 

Standing up was a lesson in fright when his legs shook, threatening to give way. But he locked his knees, and after a few wobbly first steps eventually gained enough balance and confidence to keep going. Gwen followed closely behind, eying Merlin worriedly with her hands partially raised, ready to catch him if need be. 

While High Hrothgar was no castle of Camelot, it still took a bit of navigating, and even Gwen was having a difficult time remembering what room was where. They finally stumbled onto one of the Greybeards kneeling before a window in meditation. But as the two approached he rose to his feet and bowed.

Merlin, not knowing how he was supposed to respond, bowed his head back, swallowing uneasily.

“I’m, er… ready for the test.”

The Greybeard looked Merlin up and down, making Merlin suddenly and painfully aware of his lack of shoes, jacket and the small drafts finding their way through the thick, stone walls. Merlin fought hard not to shiver. After a brief moment of scrutiny, the Greybeard finally bowed and beckoned them to follow.

They were brought to the main chamber, and the Greybeards must have practiced some sort of telepathy or foresight, because it wasn’t long before the other Greybeards joined them, Arthur and the rest in tow. One look at Merlin, and Arthur snorted.

“Took you long enough,” he said, only to be immediately silenced when Morgana gave him a shove.

Merlin ignored him, focusing on Iseldir instead. “I’m ready for the test,” he said with confidence, even as another draft made him shiver.

“If you feel so, then it shall be so,” Iseldir said. “Please stand in the center of the floor.” 

Merlin did so, while the Greybeards formed a circle around him. 

“Since your first Shout was to summon the dragons, we will teach you a new shout, and see how quickly you master it.”

The promised test was a simple enough matter. Isledir whispered an ancient word at the floor, the word itself embedding into the stone. Merlin read the word, and once the image of those letters was burned into his brain, Iseldir shared his knowledge of the word – that knowledge passing in a whirlwind of light, just like the day the dragon’s soul had been absorbed by Merlin’s presence. After that, an image was projected with a Shout into the middle of the floor. Merlin shouted the word he had just learned, causing the image to stumble. He did this three times, each time feeling the word leave him like a rush of energy that filled his lungs and burst from his mouth, exhilarating and terrifying all at once. 

Iseldir smiled happily. “You may put your doubts to rest, Dovhakiin. You are indeed the Dragonborn, for only the Dragonborn can gain mastery of their thu’um so quickly and without study. There would be further trials, but Paarthurnax is anxious to speak with you. He has learned much from his kin that may shed some light on your situation.”

“When can we meet with him?” Arthur asked.

Iseldir looked over at Arthur as though remembering he was there. “As soon as the Dragonborn is prepared against the cold, Paarthurnax will speak with us. Things are indeed dire, it seems. Paarthurnax has never descended from the Throat of the World, but he does so now. Come, we must go to meet him.”

Yet, despite what seemed to be a sense of urgency, the Greybeards took their time ensuring that Merlin was bundled up within coats and cloaks. It did nothing to bolster Merlin’s self-confidence, instead making him feel more like glass that would shatter at the slightest jostling. 

Gwen, also bundled but not as much as Merlin, said kindly, “You were injured and half-dead from the cold.”

That didn’t help, either. 

But on stepping through the back doors of the citadel into the courtyard, Merlin couldn’t help but feel grateful for the layers of protection. Though the blizzard had died down, the wind was still like a blade and the snow like stinging nettles against the exposed portions of his face. They went straight for a roaring bonfire at the top of a short flight of snow-covered steps leading to a bridge – the way to the Throat of the World, Iseldir explained, which was often the final test of the Dragonborn had Parthuurnax not been so anxious. Whatever the cause of this anxiety, it was contagious, the serene Greybeards unusually tense as they watched the sky.

The clapping of wings preceded Parthuurnax. A great gray dragon with ragged wings descended from the snow-shrouded sky, and when he landed in the court-yard, the ground shook. 

“Greetings, Dovhakiin,” his voice boomed. “And my friends.” The dragon ambled closer to where the humans were gathered, and the Greybeards bowed to him. 

“It is an unorthodox meeting, I know,” Parthuurnax said, “but time may not be the ally we once thought it was.”

“Master Parthuurnax,” Iseldir said. “You have news for us on why the Dragonborn has returned to this world?”

“I have… knowledge,” Parthuurnax said. “Given to me by my brothers and sisters. Tales of dragon eggs taken by those in the black robes of the necromancer. But there is more. Yes. It is why I came, why I could not wait for the Dovhakiin to come to me. Magic burns in the air. A dark magic as foul as its stench. The stench is strongest over the place you call Labyrinthia. It is an old magic, my kin say, full of corruption. My brothers and sisters have been watching this area, but while they have seen little, they have scented mortal kind among the ruins. Necromancers have also been seen making their way toward Labyrinthia.”

“So Labyrinthia is where we need to go,” Arthur said. When Parthuurnax set his ancient gaze on him, Merlin was surprised to see Arthur quail a little. 

“It is the only place on this plane – Mundus - that wreaks of the kind of magic that would require the death of our young,” Parthuurnax said.

“Um, do you know what kind of magic it is?” Merlin asked, and when Parthuurnax looked at him, Merlin understood the need for quailing. Gods, it was like being scrutinized by eternity.

“I do not,” Parthuurnax said. “But neither am I a mage, nor a necromancer. But I know that where there is necromancy, there is death. For a necromancer’s spell to be cast, a life must be taken. Our young are in danger. Perhaps many are already dead. You must enter where we cannot, Dovhakiin, and put an end to this magic before it affects us all, if it has not already.”

Parthuurnax then leaped into the air, his wings raising a thick blizzard of ice and snow. His sudden departure left everyone briefly speechless.

Then Gwaine said, “Well, at least he was straightforward, unlike another dragon we know.” And Merlin had to clench his jaw to keep from laughing hysterically.

Labyrinthia. Divines, if he’d thought trekking up the Throat of the World was dangerous, he didn’t want to begin to imagine what Labyrinthia was going to be like. 

Actually, he already knew what it was going to be like. It was going to be a nightmare. Possibly even his tomb. 

But if this really was his destiny, if this was truly meant to be and the gods really did know what they were doing, then – damn it all – he could at least go in prepared. 

While Arthur – finally looking less put-out and more serious and resolved – issued order to prepare to journey to Labyrnthia, Merlin shuffled his way to Morgana. 

He said, over the howl of the wind, “I need you to train me in magic.”

TBC...


	5. Chapter 5

With Merlin healed and bundled up, and with the only known frost troll dead, going back down the mountain proved far easier than going up. They stayed in Ivarstead for only the evening to rest and thaw out. By morning, they set off before the sun had yet to rise. 

Arthur had always appreciated horses, but after having trudged up a slippery mountain in the snow, he was entertaining thoughts of commissioning a stable fit for a king, as a thank you to horses for merely existing. By the Nine, it was wonderful not to have to trudge.

Now that they knew that time _was_ of the essence after all, they took the mountain path shown to them by a local farmer. It meant contending with a few wolves, the odd sabre-cat and an incompetent thief, but it cut the journey in half, and it wasn’t long before they were in Whiterun gathering new supplies. Arthur had never been a fan of the territory, even if it was lovely. Too open with little cover should they be attacked, and water sources teeming with angry mudcrabs. 

It also didn’t help that on the second day of their journey to Labyrinthia, Morgana had decided that Merlin needed to better his fire casting magic. In an open plain, full of dried grass. And, of course, it had to involve tossing about exploding fireballs.

“Oh, relax, Arthur. You don’t hear me whining about your men swinging their swords about for practice,” Morgana said. They were finished for the night, thank the gods, the practice having apparently worn Merlin out that the moment he tucked himself into his bedroll, he was out like a light.

“Swords don’t start prairie fires,” Arthur countered.

“No, they just lop off heads.” Morgana had situated herself on the log Arthur was currently occupying. Dinner was long past, a meal of stew made by Percival, since Merlin had been too busy trying to set the grass ablaze to cook.

“Besides,” Morgana said, warming her hands at the campfire safely contained within a ring of dirt and stones. “You would not _believe_ the control he has. We see a number of students at the college who can learn fast but Merlin…” she shook her head in amazement. “It’s like… like the knowledge was always there, it just needed to wake up, I suppose you could say. Yesterday he went from casting a frost spell to throwing ice in only two hours. Today, he went from flames to fireballs in an hour.”

Arthur grimaced, thinking back to the day he and Merlin met, when Merlin had frozen puddle after puddle to make Arthur slip. “He is quite good at ice, I’ll give him that. But please tell me you’ve been teaching him wards.”

“Oh, he already knows wards,” Morgana said dismissively. “Mostly he needed help with more advanced spells. Arthur, when this is over, I want you to release Merlin as your manservant so that he can come to the college.”

“Not going to happen,” Arthur said, glaring into the popping flames. He could see Morgana’s glower out of the corner of his eye.

“Because you’re a stubborn arse or because you dislike Merlin to the point that you loathe the idea of him getting an education?” Morgana said.

“It’s because the dragonborn is the last thing the college mages need.” He looked at Morgana. “Would he actually learn anything if he goes, or will he be too busy being poked, prodded and asked to Shout so the mages can figure out how this Shouting business works?”

“We already know how it works, we simply don’t have the time or patience to learn it.” Morgana then narrowed her eyes at Arthur. “You know, if I didn’t know any better I would say I was detecting a little concern from you. Concern for Merlin, if I’m not mistaken.” She smirked and nudged him the ribs with her elbow. “Come on, you can admit it, he’s growing on you.”

“Not hardly,” Arthur growled.

Morgana snorted. “Arthur, don’t give me that. I heard you order Leon and Gwaine to find out which weapons Merlin works best with and to train him with it. Not that it’s done anything except give him several cuts and a pulled muscle. But if you weren’t concerned about him, you’d have given up on trying to train him at all by now.”

“I’m training him,” Arthur said tightly, “So that he can at least last long enough to fulfill whatever madness the gods have sent him to fulfill.”

Morgana frowned at him. “You know, you’ve always been a pompous ass, but one thing I know you aren’t is cold and heartless. And I know you don’t see Merlin as some sort of tool that needs to last only long enough to get the job done. At least I honestly hope you don’t see him that way.” 

Morgana got up from her log and marched away full of huff and indignation. Arthur ignored it. What he was having a difficult time ignoring was Morgana’s accusation.

Of course he didn’t see Merlin as a tool. He’d meant what he said; Merlin needed to be able to last long enough to fulfill this destiny business of his. Although, Arthur supposed he could have worded it a little more… tactfully. Morgana often had that effect on him – her words putting him on the defensive in a way in which he more often than not ended up putting his foot in his mouth. 

Of course he was worried about Merlin, just as he worried over all his men. Perhaps a little more since Merlin wasn’t a trained warrior, and that’s what frustrated Arthur. Here they were, about to enter an unknown situation at the heart of a place even the most powerful mages feared to tread, and the boy could barely handle a bloody dagger. Yes, he had his magic and, fine, Morgana said he was good at it, but wards couldn’t stop an arrow or a well-timed slice with the sword. Arthur had had Leon purchase a bit of chainmail, arm guards and helmet for Merlin – something light that wouldn’t kill the boy’s energy before any skirmish even began – but light armor wasn’t always the most effective armor.

Gods, Morgana was right. He was concerned. But that did _not_ mean the boy was growing on him. Not a bit. 

The next day saw them once again departing before the sun was up. They rarely stopped – only once to eat and rest and again so that Arthur could speak with the Khajiit in tawny robes who had been standing there by the road. All Arthur had wanted to know was whether the roads ahead were safe, but the Khajiit - M’aiq - was more interested in talking nonsense than giving a straight answer. Gwaine, of course, thought it hilarious, and would have kept speaking to M’aiq if Arthur hadn’t threatened to confiscate his ale for the rest of the journey.

It was when they reached the mountains, the pleasantly warm air of the plains giving way to colder air and snow, that they were joined by both Kilgarrah and Aithusa. 

“We are to accompany you, at the request of Paarthurnax, to clear the way of opposition should there be any,” Kilgarrah said. 

Arthur barely managed to contain an eye roll. Dragons - they leave you to brave a treacherous mountain path in order to “prove” something about your worth, then decide that maybe it _would_ be best to help the humans out since dragon-kind had just as much to lose. Gods, they were such a self-serving race. 

Arthur made the mistake of muttering about it a little too loudly when Merlin was riding right alongside him.

“No more than we are,” Merlin said. “We’re both going in to stop the destruction of our kind.” 

“Yes, but they didn’t seem to mind sending us up a mountain full of trolls.”

“It was just one troll,” Merlin huffed.

“Yes, one troll that nearly killed both you and Percival. What would have happened to their precious destiny if you’d ended up a frozen, half-eaten corpse?”

“Well, obviously that’s where you came in,” Merlin said as though Arthur were a child. “It’s not just my destiny, if you remember.”

“So, basically, my destiny – the destiny of the Jarl of Camelot – is to be the body-guard of a skinny idiot just because he can shout loudly.”

“You know, Iseldir taught me this one Shout that’s supposed to send a man flying. Should I give it a go on you?”

“Threatening a Jarl is treason, Merlin.”

“What about threatening an ass?”

Any further insults to be hurled were halted when Aithusa appeared, circling overhead. The dragons had gone on to scout the way and clear it of any road blocks of a bandit or bear nature. 

“We are nearing the place!” she announced in all child-like sobriety. “Papa says he can smell the magic strong, here. And trolls.”

Merlin groaned. “Oh, not again.”

“It’s okay. Papa is eating the trolls,” Aithusa said, and flew off.

They arrived at the towering archway that marked their arrival at Labyrinthia’s entrance. Here they dismounted, leaving their horses and servants (except Merlin, of course) a safe distance away. A cold, snowy wind carried the sour, rotten sent of troll but also a smell like something cooking. 

Arthur drew his sword, and his men did the same without needing the order. Merlin was in the middle of their group, with Morgana beside him, both their hands up and ready to cast. They stepped through the wide archway into a maze of ancient ruins and iron doors, all blanketed in a thick layer of snow. And littering the ground were the charred and still-smoking bodies of what had once been frost trolls. 

Aithusa had said nothing about any necromancers or hired bandits guarding the place, but all the same they moved cautiously, Arthur’s head constantly turning and ears straining for the smallest sound. He glanced up to see Kilgarrah circling over a section of the ruin. Then Aithusa appeared, landing in front of them.

“This way, this way!” she said, hopping up and down. She took them through the ruins to a wide set of stairs leading up to a massive, ornate iron door. 

“It is here!” Kilgarrah called from where he circled above them. “I can taste the magic, it is so strong.”

“Ugh, he’s right,” Merlin said in disgust. “Gods, you can practically taste it. Like eating ash.”

Morgana was also making the face of someone who had just swallowed something bitter. 

Arthur nodded. Using a series of hand signals, he had Gwaine, Elyan, Percival and Leon position themselves on either side of the door, while the rest of his men remained surrounding Merlin and Morgana. When everyone was ready, Arthur moved to the door, and with a nod to Percival the knight tugged on one of the massive door rings, opening it enough for Arthur to peer inside. What he saw made him furrow his brow.

“What in the world?” he said. He nodded to Percival to open the door wider. On the other side was a massive chamber, like a great hall, full of broken burial vessels, bones, debris and dust. The whole place stank of old death. 

But what Arthur was more interested in was the entry on the other side of the chamber – or where an entry should have been. Instead, there was what looked like a barrier of flickering, electric blue light, pulsing and crackling with power. Arthur signaled with a wave of his hand for everyone to follow him inside – including Aithusa, apparently, but Kilgarrah was too big to fit through. They all gathered near the door, well away from the barrier, save for Morgana who approached it with more curiosity than fear.

“Morgana?” Arthur warned.

“Relax, Arthur, it’s just a portal,” she said. She stopped three feet from the thing, looked at it, then held her hand to it without touching it. 

“Can you remove it or open it?” Arthur asked.

Morgana shook her head. “The spell used to create this door is incredibly intricate. I wouldn’t be surprised if a password or newly crafted spell was needed to open it. But if someone were to use it I think I would be able to hold it open long enough for someone to get through. But you would have to move fast.”

“Lovely,” said Gwaine. “So, how, exactly, do we get someone to go into or out of that thing?”

Morgana suddenly dropped her hand and backed quickly away.

“We won’t need to. This barrier was also designed to detect if anyone was in the chamber. Someone’s coming!” 

“Hide, now!” Arthur said. 

They all scattered left and right, ducking behind pillars, urns, and in poor Elyan’s case, tucking himself into a crypt alcove. They were just in time when the portal flared twice, with a white light expanding from its center. 

Then a necromancer stepped out followed by several draugrs. So whatever magic had allowed the people within to sense arrivals, it also allowed them to discern who was friend and who was foe, because that necromancer and those draugrs looked more than ready to do some damage. 

The annoyance with draugrs was that they always seemed to know where you were. The draugrs spread out, each one heading to a place where Arthur’s people were hidden. There was nothing for it, they had to attack.

It was Merlin, of all people, who made the first move when he popped up from behind a large burial urn and Shouted. The necromancer managed to get a ward up just in time, but the rest of the draugr went flying. 

“Attack!” Arthur cried. The Knights and Aithusa came pouring out from their hiding places, while Morgana went straight to the doorway and poured her magic into it. 

This distracted the necromancer, who whipped around with his hands raised, ready to blast Morgana away. Aithusa bounced on him and, taking his head into her mouth, twisted his neck until it snapped. But there were still the draugr to contend with, and a hell of a lot of them.

“Go!” Gwaine shouted, taking off a draugr’s head with one massive swing of his sword. “We’ve got this lot!”

Arthur nodded once. He turned to Merlin who had his hand raised, ready to unleash a fireball but unable to get a clear shot. Arthur grabbed his sleeve and yanked him into a run.

“Hurry, Arthur, I can’t hold it for much longer!” Morgana cried, her face pained. Arthur and Merlin charged toward the barrier, Aithusa galloping close behind. The barrier was sparking and pulsing, as if fighting Morgana’s attempts to keep it open and winning. Arthur, Merlin and Aithusa leaped at the barrier. A blinding white light filled their vision.

And then they were somewhere else. 

TBC...


	6. Chapter 6

It was all rather anticlimactic, in Merlin’s opinion. One minute they were in the chamber, the next in an antechamber still full of the same dust and decay, but smaller with an equally dusty corridor leading deeper into the structure. 

So not a portal to another world as he had assumed. Just a section of the structure cut off from the rest of the world… or something. Everything he knew about portals and other worlds he knew from stories and bard song, all the facts buried beneath poetic verse and exaggeration. 

Merlin climbed to his feet, dusting his clothes and chainmail off along the way. Arthur was already upright, and knowing the prat there was no doubt he had landed on his feet, while Aithusa was shaking off the last of the magic. When done, she lifted her head, sniffing the air, and grimaced.

“The magic is really strong here, like rotten meat.”

It also felt cold, Merlin realized, like a tomb. Merlin’s heart, still beating fast from fighting the draugr and leaping through a portal, was racing, now. Every fiber of his being was screaming at him to turn around and go back, but even had he acted on that impulse it wouldn’t have been possible. The white light of the portal was gone, the barrier a solid, pulsing blue wall once again. They had only one choice, and that was to move forward.

“Merlin, did you gain any skill with any of the weapons Leon and Gwaine trained you with?” Arthur asked, staring down the corridor.

“Um…” Merlin said nervously. “Oh! Yeah, this.” He pulled a dagger from his belt.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Wonderful. Stay behind the dragon.”

“Wait, who was it who sent all those draugr flying? Oh, yes, me,” Merlin said hotly. “I can take care of myself, Arthur. Magic and Shouting may not be a sword or shield but they do come in handy from time to time.”

Arthur turned a glare on him. “So says the man nearly butchered by a troll.”

“So says the man who just sent draugr flying! Gods, Arthur! Okay, yes, I’m no warrior and I’ve admitted as much. But… but that doesn’t mean I’m helpless…”

Merlin blinked in surprise. 

He had knocked down an entire phalanx of draugr with his voice. 

_Him_ , a serving boy who’d never even picked up a sword. He’d knocked those draugr down and had been more than ready to blast them away with a fireball.

Merlin looked up at Arthur, meeting his gaze. “I can do this.” He then shrugged. “It’s not like either of us have much of a choice in the matter, anyway.”

Arthur pressed his lips together. He slowly nodded. “Okay, then. Like you said, we don’t have much choice in the matter. You take them down with your Shouts, I finish them off.”

Merlin nodded. Arthur gripped his sword tighter, then turned back to the corridor and moved toward it.

“But I still want you behind Aithusa,” he said.

Merlin snorted. “You do know she’s just a child, right?”

“I am not!” Aithusa squawked indignantly.

“I hatched you, you’re younger than me. Ergo, a child,” Merlin said. But the argument was cut short when Arthur shushed them both. Right, they were entering a dungeon filled with draugr, necromancers and certain death.

The first chamber they entered, and two draugr stepped immediately from their alcove. Arthur took the first with his sword and Merlin the second with a fireball. The next chamber they entered, and it was three draugr, these ready and waiting. A minute later and the small chamber was filled with the dust and smoke of vanquished undead.

“Gods, is this what we have to expect with each bloody room?” Arthur panted.

“Probably,” Merlin panted back, hands braced on his knees. “I imagine this place is going to be heavily guarded.”

“Well isn’t that just splendid,” Arthur spat.

But Merlin was right. Whoever had spelled this chamber hadn’t held back. With every chamber there were draugr –weak draugr, powerful draugr, even a bloody draugr that knew how to Shout. Thank goodness Merlin had always had a penchant for wards or they would have been blasted the moment they stepped into what looked to have been a banquet chamber. But something was bothering Merlin, something that had been niggling at the back of Merlin’s mind since they had started off, but unable to get a foothold on his thoughts with all the draugr attacks occupying it.

“Where are all the necromancers?” Merlin asked.

Arthur, pulling his sword from the draugr deathlord, paused, looking at Merlin in consternation. 

“Good question,” he said.

Aithusa sniffed the air. “They are near. The magic is getting even stronger. They must be in the next chamber, perhaps performing this magic.”

Arthur nodded. “Okay, then. Merlin, get a Shout ready. If we can take them by surprise, it might give us the advantage.”

Merlin swallowed tightly. “Right.”

The three of them walked through the next entry into the next hallway, treading softly and taking things slow and careful. Man-made walls soon gave way to natural rock covered in moss and glowing mushrooms. The stench of death was overpowering, filling Merlin’s lungs until he felt he could barely breathe. His heart was pounding in his throat, and he had to clench his fists to keep his hands from shaking. 

He could feel the magic like something foul coating his skin.

Then the tunnel opened into the largest cavern Merlin had ever seen, nearly as massive as a bloody palace, with stalagmites and stalactites as big as dragons. 

And Merlin would know, because standing within the chamber like sentries waiting for an order, were dragons – about twenty as far as he could see, shriveled and bony with glowing white eyes and skin like old parchment, and some nothing more than bones.

Undead dragons. _Draugr_ dragons. 

By the Nine, that’s what these necromancers were doing – bringing dead dragons back to life.

Aithusa’s face twisted in disgust. “Abominations,” she quietly hissed. “They have no souls. I can feel it.”

Arthur made a noise that pulled their attention away from the dead dragons. He pointed at the way ahead, through the army of dead, then waved for them to follow.

“Through them?” Merlin squeaked.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Of course not. This way.”

They slipped out of the hall, creeping quickly to a natural pillar of rock wide enough to hide them. They crept from rock to rock, but if the undead dragons saw them then they didn’t care. Their breathing (and how and why did undead things still manage to breathe?) was almost thunderous in the cavern. But Merlin was able to hear, over that rumbling, the sound of many voices chanting. 

They came to a ledge like a ramp leading up off the floor. Arthur took it. The ledge ended abruptly but afforded them the perfect view of the source of all that tainted magic. 

A ring of thirty necromancers surrounded a black alter, on which sat a speckled blue dragon’s egg surrounded by freshly butchered organs and skinned bones. While the ring of necromancer’s chanted, the necromancer at the altar was holding a black knife with a wickedly curved blade. The chanting rose higher and higher, a putrid green light surrounding the egg growing brighter and brighter. Just when the necromancers reached the point where they were practically screaming, the necromancer at the altar lifted their face, then cried out a word in what sounded most definitely like a Shout. The power of it shook Merlin to his bones. Then she plunged the knife into the egg.

Aithusa flinched and whimpered. “There was a dragon in that egg. I could feel it. But it’s gone, now.”

A portal of light like what was seen whenever a mage summoned an Atronach, but far larger, exploded above the altar. A dragon emerged, this one with barely any skin hanging from its bones. It slipped from the portal onto the ground, and the ring of necromancer’s parted for it to join the rest of the army.

“So that’s what this is all about,” Arthur whispered. “They’re creating a bloody undead army. Gods, can you imagine it? Undead dragons tearing across Tamriel. Draugrs alone are difficult enough to kill, but these would be next to impossible.”

“But how are they being summoned?” Merlin asked. “Where are the bodies coming from?”

“Through the blood of the young,” Aithusa said with a shiver. “I can feel it. I don’t know how the magic works, but I can feel it pulling at me. It’s the most powerful magic I’ve ever felt.”

Merlin agreed. Not that he was an expert on what varying levels of magic felt like, but what he felt now could certainly be described as overwhelming and terrifying. 

“But what was it that was said. Was that a Shout?” Arthur asked.

Merlin nodded. “It was.”

“It’s a name,” Aithusa said. “In human tongue it means blue storm chaser. That must be how they are summoning the bodies.”

“Dragon names have that kind of power?” Arthur asked.

Aithusa shook her head. “Not for living dragons. To Shout a name is taken as either a challenge or cry for help, depending on how it’s Shouted. But these are dead dragons brought back to life. Their names probably do control them.”

“But how did she get so many names?” Merlin said. “I doubt that they’re just written in some book…”

Arthur cleared his throat, then pointed in the general direction of the altar. There, next to the egg oozing viscous fluid and blood, was what looked to be a worn, leather book with a clasp – a journal. 

“Humans wrote down dragon names,” Aithusa said. “Papa told me so. A people called The Blades. They were dragon hunters.”

“So, in other words, our necromancers did their research,” Arthur said. He looked at Merlin and Aithusa. “Okay,” he said. “We need a plan.”

Merlin reared his head back. “Don’t look at me. You’re the one trained to come up with strategies.”

“But you’re the one with the Shouting and magic. Isn’t there some Shout that could undo some of this? These dragons, that portal? Something?”

Merlin gave him a long-suffering look, and Arthur deflated.

“Thought not.”

Merlin looked to the altar that was now being cleared and cleaned, but the book remained where it was. 

“If we can get the book, we can at least stop them from summoning any more dragons.”

Arthur nodded. It wasn’t much of a plan, but at least it was a start. While they waited for the necromancers to finish cleaning up (and hoping that cleaning up meant taking a break and going somewhere else within the chamber – preferably out of sight) Arthur was giving his neck quite the work-out taking in as much of the chamber as he could, making obvious mental note of every pillar, slope, nook and cranny, where it was positioned, and what was within optimal reach. 

Merlin focused on the necromancers as they slowly began to disperse, looking drained and weary. Merlin bit his lip trying not to smile at what was looking to be an increasing amount of advantage in their favor. A weary mage was a slow, easily distracted mage - which meant nothing in the face of an army of necromancers, but could be the difference between a clean get-away and things going to hell should they only have to face a guard or two.

Merlin and Arthur remained hidden even after the necromancers had gone. Seconds ticked by, turning into a minute, then another minute, until Arthur finally signaled for Merlin and Aithusa to follow with a twitch of his fingers. 

They crept back the way they had come, down the slope leading to the ledge, then on reaching the ground pressed close to the wall as they made their way around the draugr dragons to the altar. Whatever magic was binding these dragons’ corpses to this plane must have been intricate and powerful – the kind of power that required specific instruction – because the dragons had yet to react to their presence. Merlin was quite certain these dragons wouldn’t move until they were commanded to do so. Had these dragons been regular human draugr, they would have been hacking the intruders to pieces by now. Instead, they stood there, breaths rasping in rotten lungs or fleshless bones creaking as they waited. The stench was overwhelming, like breathing acid, and Merlin finally had to pull his neckerchief over his mouth and nose. Aithusa kept making silent faces of disgust. Arthur, being in front, didn’t seem affected by the smell, but every so often his breathing would falter when he took a deep breath as though he’d been holding it.

But they were getting closer to the altar, which Merlin wanted to feel happy about, and he would have felt happy had it not been for the niggling feeling that this was far too easy. Because who in their right mind left their secret weapon lying about for anyone to take?

Merlin heard them before he saw them – the raspy breaths, guttural croaks and slap of rotting feet on stone. 

Draugrs. 

“Arthur,” Merlin hissed shakily. 

“I know, hurry!” Arthur hissed back. They increased their creeping to a near run. But whatever magic allowed the draugrs to know when their crypts were being invaded also made them like damn hounds honing in on the scent – the slap of rotten feet were getting closer.

Merlin glanced back over his shoulder to see if the draugr were within sight. His eyes widened at a draugr lifting its battle axe over the white dragon’s back.

“Aithusa, behind you!” Merlin shouted, and then Shouted, sending the draugr tumbling head over heels.

All Oblivion broke loose. Necromancers came pouring out, one of them shouting, “Lady Morgause, intruders!”

Then the dragons stirred, shifting as if waking from a deep sleep. 

“Damn it all!” Arthur barked, and lunged those last few steps toward the altar. 

Only to go flying back the moment his hands were inches from the book. He landed hard on his back with a thump. 

“Arthur!” Merlin shouted, running after him. A hot, thin slice of pain ripped through his back, tearing a cry of alarm from his throat. He staggered, nearly falling to his knees, and turned to see a draugr bringing its sword straight down for the kill. 

But the final blow never came. Aithusa Shouted, and the draugr froze – literally; encased in a block of ice that Aithusa then plowed into. The ice crashed to the floor and shattered into a thousand pieces of frozen draugr. 

Merlin didn’t waste time appreciating the fact that he was still alive. He pushed through the burning pain and the feel of hot blood sliding down the canal of his spine, lurched to his feet and staggered the rest of the way to an unconscious Arthur. 

Merlin gathered Arthur to him, but when he tried to haul Arthur up to drag him to safety, the wound on Merlin’s back dropped them both, the exertion making it feel as though the wound was being torn open.

“Aithusa!” Merlin cried out in desperation and pain, but the little white dragon was occupied trying to hold the draugr back. But a young dragon could only do so much against a horde of draugr, her efforts hindered by sheer numbers and the legs of stationary dead dragons. Several draugr got passed her and made straight for Merlin and Arthur. Merlin took a deep breath, ready to Shout.

“I command you to halt!”

The draugr stopped, and for a moment Merlin assumed it was because Aithusa had Shouted. Except the draugr weren’t encased in ice.

Then the dead dragons shifted, parting, the draugr parting with them creating a corridor of dead flesh. The blond woman who had been casting at the altar only moments before sauntered toward Merlin and Arthur, her army of necromancers following behind.

Aithusa bounded over to Merlin’s side, where she positioned herself like a dog with its hackles up, teeth bared and her voice a low rumble in her chest.

Morgause merely smiled. 

“Well,” she said, stopping with six feet between them. “Jarl Pendragon, a servant and a baby dragon. Isn’t this just precious.”

The necromancers chuckled behind her.

“I would ask how you managed to find your way to my little realm,” she went on, “but I suppose it doesn’t matter in the long run. You’re dead either way, and the sooner I dispose of you the sooner we can get back to the task at hand.”

Morgause raised her hand toward Arthur, Merlin and Aithusa. Merlin lurched back, his spine pressing against the edge of the altar. 

The altar, that was right behind him, as was the book. Merlin reached back with one hand, and with a thought using one of the spells Morgana had taught him, caused the book of names to fly into his hand. It wasn’t a neat catch, and when he held it up it dangled open.

“Try anything and I burn it,” Merlin said through gritted teeth, part in defiance and part in his fight against his lagging strength from holding Arthur and the pain in his back. 

Morgause cocked an eyebrow. Neither did she unleash her spell.

“Do you honestly think you could destroy the book before I destroyed your precious jarl?” she said.

Merlin quickly lowered Arthur none-too-gently to the ground, and raised his other hand, casting a shield.

Morgause smiled sweetly. “Oh, well, aren’t you a quick little mage. Really, though, it’s futile. You may have power but you are untrained, I can sense it. Your shield will not hold up for long. Besides, I don’t need to use a spell. Not when I have my… pets.”

Morgause snapped her fingers. When she did, one of the dead dragons shifted around to face Merlin and Arthur. It lifted its massive rotting paw and positioned it right over them.

“Try to shield against that, little mage,” Morgause simpered.

Merlin’s eyes flickered between Morgause and the dragon’s foot poised overhead. He swallowed thickly, wracking his brain for something, anything, that would get them out of this mess.

He saw Aithusa out of the corner of his eye. She kept twisting and angling her neck at the book as though trying to get herself into the best position to read it. 

“Give me the book, little mage,” Morgause said, her hand outstretched not to cast, but to take. “And I’ll make your death swift. Deny me, and I will drag it out for days.”

Aithusa, having stopped reading, stretched her neck up and whispered in Merlin’s ear.

“Trythazeem,” she said. “Shout it. Trythazeem.”

“What?” Merlin said, his mind and heart racing.

“Aw,” Morgause simpered again. “Is your little dragon trying to give you advice? I hope she is convincing you to surrender.”

“Shout the name,” Aithusa said again, more urgently. “It is how Alduuin returned us to the world; father told me. You are Dovhakiin. If you Shout for them, they will answer.”

“But I’m not that powerful!” Merlin hissed.

“You don’t need to be. You just need to call them back for a little while. Your thu’um will be enough, I promise. Now Shout – Trythazeem.”

Morgause sighed. “You are trying my patience, little mage. I think I will just end you.” She raised her hand, ready to snap her fingers.

“Trythazeem!” Merlin Shouted.

The head of a skeleton dragon snapped up. A deep, thunderous voice bellowed in the dragon-tongue, then switched for the common tongue.

“What madness is this? Why do my bones live!” it snarled in rage.

Morgause, hand still ready to snap, stared at the talking dead dragon in horror. 

“What is this?” she breathed. “How are you doing this?”

“Gormartam, do that one!” Aithusa said.

Merlin Shouted the name. The rotted head of a draugr dragon lifted and roared. 

“No!” Morgause shouted, shifting her hand to aim it at the agitated dragons. “No, I command you to obey me! Trythazeem, Gormartam, you are mine!”

But this only enraged the dragons who bellowed and stomped, shoving the dragons around them to the ground. One dragon fell right on top of five necromancers, who didn’t flee fast enough.

Merlin took the opportunity to hook his arm around a groggily waking Arthur and drag him behind the altar. He continued to Shout names as Aithusa gave them, and more dragons woke confused and angry. They jostled and shoved, some taking it as an attack and Shouting at the ones shoving them. The dragons lashed out with claws and thu’ums, stomping on draugr and any necromancers unable to get away fast enough. And Morgause stood there, her hands now tangled in her hair and her face twisted in horror and rage.

“This isn’t possible!” she screamed. She whirled around, her eyes flaming with hate.

“You!” she said, and thrust her hand at Merlin still struggling with getting Arthur to safety. Merlin flew back into the wall on the other side of the altar. He hit it, something in his shoulder cracked and he screamed.

“Witch!” Aithusa cried. She Shouted, but Morgause’s other hand raised a shield in time to deflect it.

“I will not be defeated by a child and a peasant!” she sneered. She shifted her hand to Aithusa and sent out a column of flame. Aithusa leaped aside but not before it scored her flank. She then flapped into the air, dodging Morgause’s attack. 

Aithusa Shouted, but not at Mrogause. She was Shouting the dragon’s names, as many as she could.

The dragons stopped their fighting to stare up at the white dragon eluding Morgause’s attacks.

“The one you want is the necromancers!” she cried. “The ones in the black robes! They have desecrated your bodies! It is them you want!”

All glowing eyes turned to the only one in black robes still in the chamber.

Morgause turned her attack on the dragons, snarling in defiance. But her spells, even her shield, was no match for the dragons’ combined thu’ums. They surrounded Morgause until she could no longer be seen.

Then they Shouted.

The combined roars were deafening. It cracked stone and seemed to pierce Merlin’s very soul, and no matter how hard he pressed his hands to his ears – ignoring the agony ripping through his shoulder and back –he could not block the power out.

Then silence settled, so strong it hurt. The dragons parted, and where Morgause had been, there was only a scorched circle. 

Then the cave rumbled, stone cracking and raining dust. Aithusa landed next to Merlin. He wrapped his good arm around her neck and leaned against her as she supported him toward Arthur.

“We must flee before the cave collapses,” she said, breathless from so much fast flying. “Get On my back, both of you.”

Aithusa crouched. Merlin helped an awake but very out-of-sorts Arthur to stand and climb onto Aithusa’s back.

“Oh, are we going on patrol?” Arthur said, dazed.

“Yep, going on patrol,” Merlin said, his voice tight with pain. “Just… make sure to hang on tight, my lord.” Merlin climbed on behind him. 

Arthur glanced down at Aithusa’s back in confusion. “When did I get a white hor… orse!” he said just as Aithusa launched herself into the air. 

“What of the other dragons?” Merlin shouted above the rumble and crack of dislodged stones. He looked down to see the dragons, once again just standing there as boulders fell from the ceiling and smashed into them.

“Morgause is gone, their vengeance done. Their souls have returned to the afterlife and their bodies will be buried once more,” Aithusa said. She angled away just in time to avoid a chunk of ceiling falling to the ground. She dodged another piece, another, then dove into the tunnel and onto the ground, where she bounded quickly to where they had come in.

“But the door…!” Merlin began, only to stop when he saw the portal flickering and glowing, and a wounded necromancer limping through. 

Aithusa increased her speed. The portal flickered more, wavering as if struggling to stay open. With a growl, Aithusa leaped into the portal.

And landed on the other side among the unmoving bodies of dead draugr.”

“They’re alive!” Gwaine cried, rushing toward them.

The others looked up from where they were guarding wounded and barely conscious necromancers.

“But barely,” Gwained said, looking them over as he helped first Arthur then Merlin from Aithusa’s back, lowering them both gently to the floor. He chuckled, clasping both heartily on the shoulder. “By the Nine you have impeccable timing. We were just about to go in after you.”

“Good thing you didn’t,” Merlin said, breathless. He was leaning against Arthur, clutching his shoulder and fighting his ever increasing dizziness. “Whole place was coming down. It was… was a mess.”

Arthur, a little more alert, added, “Morgause was summoning the corpses of dragons. She was amassing an army of the undead.”

Morgana, coming over to them, paled. “Morgause?”

“Yes,” Arthur swallowed thickly. “Gods, I’m going to be sick. Do you know her?”

“She was next in line to be the archmage until it was discovered she was practicing dark arts. She vanished, but we thought for sure she was dead.”

“She is now,” Merlin said, then winced when he shifted and his body reminded him how movement was not welcome.

“Enough pleasantries, these two need healing potions,” Gwaine said. “Elyan, Percival, see about putting together some kind of stretcher, I don’t think they’re going to be awake for much…”

The rest was lost when Merlin’s body had enough and dropped him into sweet oblivion.

TBC...


	7. Chapter 7

Healing potions were wonderful, brilliant, the best blessing the gods had ever blessed all Mundus with. But, unfortunately, the kind of blessing saved only for when a body was on the brink of death.

Which Merlin’s had been back at the temple, with only enough potions to ensure he didn’t cross over the line into actual death. And because he was no longer on death’s door, his body was no longer in a position to require more healing potions. 

“Besides,” Gaius had said. “It’s better for a body to heal on its own. Too many healing potions have been known to cause dependency, the body no longer able to remember how to heal without help.”

Which Merlin supposed was a good enough reason not to be fully healed by potions, he supposed (although he didn’t have to like it). Gwaine had said that the cut on Merlin’s back had opened all the way to the bone.

“I could see all your bloody ribs,” he had said with a smile but all color bleached from his face.

The slice was more a scab now, itchy and annoying whenever the bandages caught on it. His arm was in a sling, the bone having been broken below the shoulder joint but the pain less since the potions had started it on the path of healing. It had been worse during the journey back to the keep, the potions having stopped the bleeding but not the pain. Between Merlin’s blood-loss and broken bone, and Arthur’s concussion, the return home had seemed to take an eternity.

But they’d made it, and after a few days of rest and food, with no signs of infection, Merlin had been allowed out for a little fresh air. He was finally able to see all of Camelot from where he stood on its ramparts - the lower town, the wall and the surrounding forests beyond. It was beautiful.

“Gods, of all the places you had to go, it had to be outside in the glaring sun all the way at the top of the bloody citadel.”

Merlin whipped around, wincing when it jostled his shoulder. “Ow,” he moaned.

Arthur, still a little pale and wincing as well, chuffed. “Serves you right. I was all over the bloody castle looking for you.”

Merlin, rubbing his arm beneath the break, smirked. “You, looking all over for me instead of sending your many servants to do it for you?” Merlin puffed out his chest, his smile stretching wider. “I never knew I was so special.”

“Don’t go getting full of yourself, idiot. It was an excuse to get out of the bloody room. Unlike some people, I don’t enjoy lazing about.” Arthur looked pointedly at Merlin.

Merlin looked pointedly back. “Probably because, unlike some people, I know how to enjoy time off when I get it. How’s your head?”

“Fine, save for its sudden aversion to light, it seems,” Arthur said, joining Merlin at the ramparts despite his complaints. 

“It’ll clear up,” Merlin said.

“It had better. And you? Can I expect you back to polishing my boots any time soon?”

“If by soon you mean a month. That’s how long Gaius said it might take to heal.” Merlin smiled. “Seems your poor boots will have to make do without me. And your clothes, your floors, your sheets when they have to be changed…”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Lords, your are an arse.”

“Takes one to know one, sire.”

Arthur gave him a light shove. Merlin laughed around another, “Ow, you clotpole! What do you want, anyway? Or were you so bored you thought reminding me of my future chores would be a bit of fun entertainment.” 

“Actually,” Arthur said, shifting his feet uncomfortably. “That is to say, in point of fact, your chores do have something to do with it. Why I needed to speak with you, that is. The thing is…” He leaned forward with his hands on the rampart wall. “Well… the thing is, I can’t really have you as my manservant, can I?”

Both of Merlin’s eyebrows shot up his forehead. “What? Why not? Are you saying you came all this way just to sack me?”

“What? No! I mean… well, I mean…” Arthur sighed. “By the Nine, this shouldn’t be so difficult. I’m not sacking you, it’s just, you’re the dragonborn and all.”

“Yeah?” Merlin said. “And?”

“And I can’t exactly have the Dragonborn washing my socks, now, can I?” Arthur blurted irritably.

Merlin shrugged. “Why not? It’s not like I’m any different.”

Arthur stared at him. “You could Shout the whole bloody castle down if you had the mind to.”

Merlin frowned. “Why would I want to Shout the castle down?” Then his eyes widened in realization. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Is this… do you think I’m dangerous? Do you think I would actually use this gift against you?”

“What? No!” Arthur said, and he meant it. Merlin knew he meant it by how aghast he looked.

“It has nothing to do with that,” Arthur went on. “Look, the point I’m trying to make is, well… all those things I said about you not being a warrior and not being able to defend yourself. Obviously I’m eating those words, now. And the point I’m trying to make is that you are a warrior. You may not be a jarl or a knight but you’re still a warrior with a damn useful power, and it doesn’t seem right that your lot in life should be scrubbing floors. You were meant for more. You were bloody well born to save the world—“

“And I have,” Merlin cut in.

“But that doesn’t mean you should go back to the life of a servant.”

“Why, what’s wrong with being a servant?”

“Nothing,” Arthur said, shaking his head. “Nothing at all.” He narrowed his eyes. “Are you saying you don’t mind being a servant? Even with all your gifts?”

Merlin shrugged, feeling just as uncomfortable and uncertain as Arthur looked. In truth, he didn’t know what he wanted. No, he didn’t mind being a servant, even with all his gifts, but neither did he want to be honored with some lofty title or position - which he was quite certain was the direction this conversation was supposed to be going. Arthur wanted to honor him in some way. But Merlin… Merlin wasn’t sure he wanted that. Because at the end of the day, he was still Merlin, powerful thu’um or not. And…

And, he liked being just Merlin, who did what needed to be done not for honor or power, not because of destiny, but because it needed to be done. Because it meant keeping the ones he cared about safe.

But, seeing as how Merlin wasn’t quite sure how to put that into words, he said instead, “I’m not going to be your housecarl or steward, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

Arthur snorted. “By the gods, no. You’d have the whole place in chaos in a week. I was thinking more along the lines of Thane, actually.”

Merlin’s mouth twisted in uncertainty. “Thane?”

“Oh, don’t look so sour. All it means is that the locals show you the respect you deserve. I won’t even assign you a housecarl, if you don’t want.”

“Seeing as how I don’t have a house, that would be wise.”

“Plus, Gaius, he is getting on in years and I’m sure he would like to retire soon and devote his time to the healing arts. Which means I’ll be needing a new mage, soon.”

Merlin stared, astonished. “But… I’m not even college trained.”

Arthur smiled. “Neither was Gaius.”

Merlin’s heart beat fast in his chest, uncertainty circling around the warmth over a man who, not long ago, had deemed Merlin unworthy of anything and was now seeing him worthy of everything. 

“I’m… I’m not sure. I mean, I don’t know if I’m ready for something like that,” Merlin said honestly.

“Well, it’s not like I’m asking you to fill the position this instant. Gaius isn’t quite _that_ ready to retire. There’s still time. Besides…” Arthur clasped Merlin’s shoulder. “You called dragons from the dead and turned them on an army of necromancers and their master. You’re more than ready, whether you realize it or not.”

Merlin smiled a tentative smile. 

Arthur patted him twice on the shoulder before removing his hand. “Besides, it’ll be nice to be able to get a competent manservant.”

Merlin snorted. “Careful. You might end up having one with another world-saving destiny.”

Arthur’s nose wrinkled. “That would be just my luck, wouldn’t it?” He then draped his arm across Merlin’s shoulders and steered him away from the rampart walls and back inside. “Come on, as Jarl I’m supposed to reward you with a weapon for your deeds. I think we may have a nice butter knife you could have.”

“I’ll just enchant it to make all your buttered rolls taste like ash yams before the ash is washed off.”

“Idiot dragonborn,” Arthur grumbled.

“Clotpole jarl,” Merlin said.

The End


End file.
